


The Last Angel

by superhoney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - The Last Unicorn Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Destiel Reverse Bang, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Rowena MacLeod/Sam Winchester, Non-Canonical Angels, Non-Explicit Sex, Prince Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Spells & Enchantments, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 17:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19155451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney
Summary: Deep in the forest, Castiel keeps himself apart from the human world. But when rumour reaches him that he may be the last angel left in the land, he sets off in search of the truth. Along the way, he is joined by Sam, a magician whose abilities hinder as much as they help, and Rowena, an enchantress with a complicated past of her own. The road carries them south to a land whose king is known to hate angels, and whose crumbling castle contains more secrets than it does inhabitants. The only life and light within its walls comes from the prince, Dean, whose patience and charm are a stark contrast to the king’s cold distance. Within that grim castle, they will all be tested, and the fate of all angels will rest on their shoulders.Inspired by The Last Unicorn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the first of my two stories for this year's Dean/Cas Reverse Bang!
> 
> Surprising no one, I was once again matched with the eternally wondrous Aceriee, whose luminous prompt piece immediately had me itching to write the Last Unicorn AU I've been dreaming about for years. Thank you for your talent, your generosity, and everything else. Check out the lovely art masterpost on [tumblr](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/post/185497557513/one-of-three-prompts-i-turned-in-for) or on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19142944) and leave it some love.
> 
> Thank you also to Ri for providing the soundtrack, excellent casting insight, and an enthusiastic read-over, to Anna for the beta work, and to the challenge mods for making this a smooth and successful process as always!

It begins, as so many things do, with a single word.

Castiel has been following the riders for several miles now, flickering back and forth between the trees above their heads. They are unarmed, travelling at a leisurely pace, and seem to pose no threat to the safety and security of his forest. They are human, though, and therefore not to be trusted. He will see them to the boundaries of his land, and he will only rest easy once they have disappeared from his sight. 

He cares little for their rapid conversation. What are the inane chatterings of two humans, young even by their standards, to an ageless being such as himself? He focuses instead on the translucent green of the budding leaves, the delicate flush of pink on the unfolding blossoms, the bees that hum lazily as they pass from one flower to the next, ignoring the flicker of blue-white light among them.

The line where the trees thin and the meadow begins is within sight when he hears it. 

_Angel_.

Castiel swoops lower, careful to stay hidden beneath the sheltering foliage. The taller of the riders is looking around himself with interest, but he has not yet cast his gaze upwards, has not yet noticed the spark of light among the branches and blossoms. “They say an angel lives in these woods,” the rider says. “Personally, I think it’s ludicrous. There are no more angels in this land.”

Were he not so stunned at the utter conviction in the man’s voice, Castiel might consider swooping down from his hiding place just to prove him wrong. But the rider’s words lodge in his mind-- _no more angels in this land_. It’s absurd, of course-- Castiel’s kind roam free across the mountains and the valleys of Tinathe, just as they have for centuries, long before that name even existed.

And yet, a shadow of doubt creeps across his mind. When was the last time he was visited by one of his siblings? When did they last chase one another across the star-strewn skies, darting through the trees and tumbling over the waterfalls in a joyous dance? 

He cannot remember, and that lack of certainty frightens him. 

“My mother saw an angel once,” the shorter rider offers. Her face is fresh and youthful, her eyes wide as she looks around at the trees on either side of the path. “She said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.”

“I highly doubt that,” the other rider scoffs. 

“Are you calling me a liar?” Crossing her arms across her chest, the rider glares at her companion.

He smiles gently at her, taking the sting out of his words. “Easy, child. Let us not spoil the beauty of this place with our fighting.” He casts his eyes upwards, then, and Castiel darts behind a thick branch just in time to evade his gaze. 

“If you are there,” he says, something wistful entering his tone, “I pity you, angel. It is no comfortable thing, to be the last of your kind.”

He clicks his tongue, and his horse springs forward. The younger rider casts one look over her shoulder, and then follows after him, the dust kicked up by their horses’ hooves leaving a trail in their wake.

Castiel remains hidden in the trees, watching until they disappear from sight, wondering. Could he truly be the last? Angels do not age and die as humans do. They can be slain, though not without difficulty, but otherwise they are eternal, ageless, as constant as the flow of the river or the changing of the seasons. 

They cannot all be gone. Balthazar with his yellow and green, Hannah with her calm lavender glow. Hael, Anna, even abrasively orange Bartholomew. No, Castiel cannot believe it. Will not believe it.

Not without more proof than the word of one human, fallible and prone to error. 

He flits back and forth between the drooping branches of the willow tree around him, anxious. If the other angels had left Tinathe, surely they would have told him. They would not have moved on without saying farewell, not unless they had no other choice. That meant they had not chosen to depart this land, but been forced to do so.

And what could possibly be a threat to an angel? Immortal beings of celestial energy that can take any form they choose, they have no natural enemies, existing in harmony with the simpler creatures of the land, gifting them peace and prosperity. The forest or meadow or mountaintop where an angel lives is blessed. Castiel’s forest is his home, and he is its protector. He had followed the human riders as they wove along the path through his woods in fulfillment of that role, ensuring they would not bring chaos to his precious domain.

Instead, they only brought it to his mind.

If his siblings have been hunted, have been chased from their homes by some unknown enemy, Castiel has a responsibility to find them. To save them. If he alone has been spared, the burden of their salvation falls to him. He has no desire to leave these woods, but his path is already unfolding before him. He will follow it to whatever end it leads to, and he will either save his kin or join them in their fate.

If he is indeed the last angel, he will not allow himself to be the least of them.

He chooses a human form to travel in, for the sake of convenience. It is not the first time he has assumed such a shape, but it has been years since he has taken any form other than the spark of light, and the cotton and leather garments feel strange against his new, fragile flesh.

Several of the forest creatures gather to observe him as he forages for berries and edible roots to sustain his body on his travels. They watch him with curiosity in their eyes, but it soon turns to sadness as they begin to understand: Castiel may not return from this journey. One doe, bolder than the rest, steps forward and nudges her downy head against Castiel’s hand. He lays it between her ears as though in benediction, feeling the warmth and softness of her, the marvel of something alive beneath his hand. His throat swells, and he removes his hand as the doe steps back, lowering her head in a respectful salute before trotting back to join the other beasts. 

His voice is rough, harsh to his ears. “Farewell, my friends,” he murmurs. “Thank you for sharing your home with me these many long years. With any luck...” He trails off, closing his eyes. “Well. With any luck, we shall see one another again.”

His eyes sting as he turns away, and the mournful hoot of the great owl is soon lost in a swell of other calls, a jumbled cacophony that nevertheless sounds sweet to his ears. Castiel’s bare feet form impressions in the dusty path as he takes his first step on the long road ahead, and he does not look back.

The road is empty for the first few miles, for which Castiel is grateful. He will be forced to interact with humans sooner or later, to ask them what they know of the angels’ fate, but for now, the solitude agrees with him. He rehearses his tale as he journeys south, weaving himself an identity as a travelling storyteller seeking inspiration. Surely, such an inauspicious figure will be able to make delicate inquiries about angels without raising any eyebrows.

A few hours away from his forest, Castiel’s keen eyes pick out a figure in the distance. He quickens his pace, adjusting the folds of the clothes he had manifested for himself, and hopes they are still close enough to current fashion to be unremarkable. As he approaches, he sees that the other traveller is a woman, simply dressed and carrying a large wicker basket braced against her hip. He coughs deliberately as he comes up behind her, praying he won’t startle her.

“Oh!” She whirls around to face him, but fortunately, her expression is amused rather than frightened. “You’re very quiet, sir.”

“My apologies.” Castiel inclines his head in what he hopes is a passably respectful gesture. “Do you require assistance with your load?” He nods at the basket she is carrying.

“No, thank you.” She beams at him, revealing deep dimples in her cheeks. “I’ve been bringing the wash in from the surrounding cottages for years now, and my muscles are accustomed to the strain.”

“Very well.” Castiel falls into step beside her, casting about for an innocuous topic of conversation. He itches to demand information outright, but he doubts that such a blunt approach will serve him well. “Fine weather we’re having, is it not?”

“Aye,” the woman responds, casting a critical eye upwards. “Likely to rain later, though.”

Castiel can work with this. “That would be unfortunate,” he replies. “I was hoping to continue on south until nightfall, but I may be forced to take shelter if it rains.”

She turns her gaze towards him, slowly taking in the pack slung over his shoulder and his bare feet. “Well, you can stop at the inn with me, if you’d like. You seem a decent fellow.”

It feels strange, at first, to smile, but Castiel does so regardless. “I would appreciate that. I have little coin, but if you wish, I can entertain your guests with a tale. I am a storyteller by trade.”

The dimples make a return appearance. “You have yourself a deal.” Shifting her basket, she extends one hand for Castiel to shake. He takes it, surprised to feel calluses on her palm. “My name is Donna, co-proprietress of the Red Lion Inn. My wife and I will be pleased to listen to your tales…” She trails off, looking at him expectantly.

Castiel doubts she would recognize his true nature in his name, but he does not wish to take that risk. “Emmanuel,” he says instead. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Donna.”

He says little else as they continue along the road, but Donna fills the silence easily, telling him all the news from the cottages she had visited earlier in the day. Castiel marvels at the variety of human life but does not offer commentary, fearful he will give himself away with his remarks. Soon, they begin to pass other travellers heading in both directions, many of whom offer cheerful waves to Donna and interested though not unfriendly glances at Castiel. He does his best to nod politely in turn, fighting down the urge to shift into his true form and fly away from their curious eyes. 

As predicted, the skies gradually darken the further south they travel. The first drop of rain has just darkened the dusty road before them when Donna lets out a sound of satisfaction and points to a low shape further ahead. “Not far now,” she says. “Hurry, Emmanuel, and we may not be entirely soaked by the time we arrive.”

Castiel does as instructed. The rain feels refreshing on his dirt-streaked face, but he knows he will not think that for long. He must also remember to be careful with this fragile body, susceptible to illness as it is. Of course, shifting back to his true form would cure it immediately, but he may not always have the chance to do so without being observed. 

The yard of the Red Lion Inn is bustling, wagons and riders jostling for space. Donna dodges them all with expert ease, Castiel trailing behind her. She pushes open the heavy wooden door and beckons him inside with a broad grin. “Welcome,” she says, depositing her basket on the counter. “It isn’t much, but it’s home.”

Another woman emerges from the room to their left, running a hand through her cropped brown hair as she glances at Castiel. “Donna,” she says with a sigh, “how many times must I tell you not to pick up strays along the road?”

Donna just laughs and presses a kiss to her cheek. “Don’t you pay her any mind, Emmanuel. Jody’s knee aches when it rains, and it makes her irritable.” She waves a careless hand in Castiel’s direction. “This is Emmanuel. I’ve offered him shelter from the rain in exchange for a tale.”

“A storyteller, hmn?” Jody’s eyes are sharp as she examines Castiel. “Well, at least you’ll have an audience tonight. Come on, then. You can have your supper once you’ve sung for it.”

Donna winks at him as she picks up her basket and disappears down a flight of stairs. Castiel swallows roughly and follows after Jody, the back of his neck prickling as the loud voices from the common room wash over him. So many people, in such a small space. The urge to turn and run is stronger than ever.

But he cannot abandon his mission so easily. Castiel takes a deep breath, feeling the air travel through the unfamiliar channels of his body, and raises his head as he enters the room. 

“We have a special treat for you tonight,” Jody shouts over the din. “Our friend Emmanuel will tell us a tale, if you’ll be quiet long enough to hear it.”

Her words are met with good-natured jests from the assembled guests, but they soon fall quiet as Castiel steps forward. Disdaining the chair Jody offers him, he clasps his hands loosely before him and surveys the room.

Farmers, for the most part. Labourers and artisans, perhaps a few merchants. The type of folk who travel widely, meaning they may have heard other whispers concerning angels. With that in mind, Castiel begins.

“Long ago, before the trees that were cut to build this inn had taken root, a storm passed over this land. Wind and rain and rolling thunder, the people knew to expect, but as they huddled in their houses, peering out at the dark, they saw something new.”

He pauses, gauging the crowd’s reaction. Most seem intrigued, if perhaps slightly confused-- they had likely been expecting another tale about the exploits of a bandit lord-- but he sees recognition in the eyes of a few of the older guests. Smiling to himself, he continues. 

“High above them, in the grey clouds, flashes of light began to appear. A glimpse here and there, sighted through the rain and the fog. Green, then orange, then all the other colours of the rainbow, darting through the sky in an intricate dance. The people gathered closer together, parents pulling their children into their embrace as they wondered what new phenomenon this was, what new force they had to contend with. As the storm raged on, they gradually relaxed, the lights coming no closer nor causing any damage that they could see. Their whispers turned from fearful to full of awe, and when the storm began to abate, they sighed, already wondering when they might see the lights again.”

“And then”-- Castiel lowers his voice for dramatic effect, the room so quiet it seems to echo from the rafters-- “a voice descended from the skies and spoke to them. ‘As the storm passes, so does the old world,’ it announced in the tones of a wise elder. ‘Blessed are you who dwell in these lands, for we are the angelic kind, and under our protection, you will thrive.’ In a great burst of light, the colours went streaking across the sky, spreading rapidly in different directions like so many shooting stars. They disappeared over the horizon, and though none ever heard that voice again, those words were remembered for many years to come.”

He closes his eyes, lost in distant memories, as the hush over the room is broken by applause and cheers. Jody gives him a wry salute from across the room, and the guests immediately swarm around Castiel, asking if he will tell them another tale. “Perhaps,” he answers, smiling slightly. “But I was promised a meal in exchange for my story. After that--” He shrugs. “We shall see.”

Jody brings him to a table tucked into the corner and places a steaming plate before him. “You’ve earned it,” she says with a small smile. “I should know to trust Donna’s instincts by now.”

Her eyes soften as she glances over to where Donna is drawing another mug of ale for a guest at the bar. Castiel follows her gaze and catches the wink Donna sends back in their direction. Though he knows it isn’t meant for him, it still makes him smile. 

Clearing her throat, Jody raps her knuckles on the surface of the table. “I’ll do my best to let you dine in peace,” she says, “but you may find yourself besieged with admirers afterwards.”

“I don’t mind.” Castiel gives her a grateful nod. “I’ve been travelling for some time. I’ll enjoy the company.”

He won’t, but hopefully it will at least prove productive. True to her word, Jody keeps the most enthusiastic of the other guests away from Castiel’s table as he eats, steadily working his way through the roast chicken and potatoes. He can feel his body absorbing the nutrients, growing stronger with every bite, and he marvels at the strangeness of this human form, the intricacies of its inner workings.

He’s just draining the last of his ale when he senses someone approaching. Slowly lowering the mug, he glances over its rim at the man standing before him. Greying hair, a bearded face, lines of experience around his eyes. Without a word, Castiel gestures to the empty seat across from him, and the man sits.

“Haven’t heard that story in years,” the man says. Behind the lines, his eyes are sharp. “What has you bringing up talk of angels here and now?”

Castiel shrugs as though the matter is of little concern to him. “They make for good stories.”

“Hmn.” Another long look, and then the man extends his hand. “Name’s Bobby.”

“Emmanuel.” Castiel shakes Bobby’s hand, his grip surprisingly strong. “Do you know much about angels, Bobby?”

Bobby leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Not much more than that story you just told. Folk used to say an angel lived above the stream a few miles from here, but not anymore.”

Castiel’s heart gives a painful lurch in his chest, but he forces his voice to remain steady. “Not anymore?”

“The angels are gone, boy.” Bobby slowly shakes his head. “If they ever did exist.”

“Now where is the story in that?” Castiel asks.

To his credit, Bobby laughs, saluting him with his own mug of ale. “Alright, fair enough. No one has any explanation for why this particular angel left, but one thing we do know: it went south.”

Castiel leans forward with interest. “South? Why south?”

“Who knows?” Bobby shrugs. “Trouble is, folks south of here don’t like talk of angels. They’ll close up tighter than a clamshell at the very word. So we here in Tinathe keep our stories to ourselves, and we wait for the day the angels come back to our streams and our forests.”

He had known. Somehow, he had known to travel south. The bond between he and his siblings called him on, guiding his steps even when he did not realize it. Castiel sighs and looks away, attempting to imitate a thwarted seeker of stories. “I was planning to travel south,” he says. “But if what you say is true, I may need to find a new story to tell in exchange for my supper along the way.”

“Aye.” Bobby nods, giving him another of those inscrutable looks. “That would be wise, lad.”

Another guest, emboldened by Bobby’s success, comes to join their table, and Castiel is soon lost in a sea of questions about his supposed travels. He makes up details, hoping no one will contradict him, and shares what stories he can remember from the last time he wandered into the human world. Eventually, the guests begin to trickle away, and Donna appears to lead Castiel to a bed in the kitchen, near enough to the fire to keep the damp of the night away. He accepts the soft blanket with murmured thanks, and returns Donna’s whispered goodnight with one of his own.

It takes a long time for him to fall asleep, for angels do not require it, and despite his current form, Castiel has not lost sight of what he is, or why he is here.


	2. Chapter 2

He leaves the next morning, his pack of food full nearly to bursting with stores from the Red Lion’s cellars. Donna and Jody wave him off, entreating him to return should he ever travel this way again. Castiel smiles, and when he vows that he will, he is surprised to find that he means it. 

The road south is busy at first, though most people are travelling in the opposite direction. Castiel receives many curious glances as he passes, but no one stops to question his purpose in heading that way. By midday, he is alone on the road, rolling hills behind him and a line of mountains ahead. 

Castiel journeys south for three more days. He meets no friendly strangers, no one willing to offer a place to stay or even a smile as they pass by. The land itself is becoming harsher, the trees along the side of the road thinner and less verdant. His feet develop calluses from the constant walking, and his legs ache by the end of each day. 

On the fourth day, he gives in. 

He wakes to the sun climbing high in the cloudless sky, and the thought of another full day under its merciless rays is enough to sway his mind. His stores of food are almost gone, and there is no one on the road to question. His human form is currently more trouble than it is worth, so he abandons it. 

It is a blessed relief to take his true form, to leave the constricting clothing and aching muscles behind. As a burst of pure blue-white light, he streaks through the sky, moving far faster than he could have on his feet. The exhaustion of the past few days falls away, replaced by the joy of flight.

He knows he will have to be careful to resume his human form before nightfall, as even the most oblivious of travellers would notice him against a darkened sky. But in the bright light of the sun, he would pass unnoticed even if there were anyone else on the road to do the noticing. With this in mind, Castiel races southwards, the mountains ahead coming closer at an exhilarating speed.

Somewhere in the mid-afternoon, he sees a lonely figure in the distance and slows, checking his wild progress. The traveller is swathed in a heavy brown cloak, and from behind, Castiel cannot determine anything about them. He considers changing form then and there, but instead, he approaches with caution, careful to keep himself in the bright light. 

He is almost directly above the figure when it turns with startling speed, a beam of energy flowing from its hand and surrounding Castiel. He struggles, but he is caught fast. He is unable to flee, unable to shift, unable to do anything but curse his hubris as the figure pushes back the hood of their cloak, a wide grin stretching across their face.

“Oh, what a day!” the man exclaims. “To have seen an angel at all would be memorable, but to have _caught_ one? You will be the prize of my collection, my friend.”

“I am not your friend,” Castiel tells him. It is a simple matter, to project his voice into the man’s mind. “Release me at once.”

The man shakes his head with affected sorrow. “No, no. I cannot do that. For I am a collector, a curator, a keeper of wonders and mysteries. I am Magnus, and you will be the greatest of my marvels.”

He turns sharply on his heel, and Castiel is dragged along above him, helpless, the air between them crackling with Magnus’ energy. His magic. Castiel knows that there are some humans with abilities far beyond those of their fellows, but he had never expected to encounter one, nor to be bested by one. He rains a steady stream of curses down on Magnus’ head, but the man pays him no heed.

Magnus brings him back north, then leaves the road, following a dirt track leading eastwards. After a few minutes, Castiel sees a cluster of wagons ahead, and a red banner snapping in the breeze. In bright golden letters, it spells out _Magnus’ Marvels: Where Myths Are Met_. 

Castiel throws himself at the magic woven around him, but it holds firm. Whatever Magnus has done, he cannot undo. He can only watch in growing horror as they approach the wagons and their contents become clear.

Each wagon has been converted into a mobile cage, with heavy iron bars across one side. In the first, an old lion raises its tired head, letting out a noise closer to a whimper than a roar. In the next, a peacock whose feathers are caked in grime examines them with a dull eye, then resumes pecking at the floor of its cage.

And in the next, a figure robed in black sits cross-legged, head rising in defiance as Magnus approaches with Castiel in tow.

“My treasures,” he says proudly, pointing them out in turn. “The fierce manticore, the glorious phoenix, and of course, the reaper herself.”

Understanding dawns on Castiel. “They’re glamoured,” he says. “With your magic, you trick susceptible humans into seeing what is not there.”

“And make a pretty profit in the process.” Magnus grins again, delight shining from his eyes.

“That one, though. The reaper.” Castiel can feel the darkness radiating from that cage, and it frightens him even more than Magnus’ magic. “She is real, just as I am.”

“Yes.” With a nod of satisfaction, Magnus tugs on the thread of power connecting them, bringing Castiel closer. “My two greatest treasures. A reaper and an angel.” With a quick gesture, Magnus sends Castiel spinning into the unoccupied cage before them. “We’ll have to make a few modifications to you, of course. No one wants to see a tiny burst of light. They want to be awed, impressed.” He places a thoughtful hand on his chin, then raises it again. 

Castiel cries out as pain lances through him. He falls to the floor of his cage and rises on human feet, then stumbles. His body is much the same as it was a day before, with one exception: the enormous wings that stretch from the middle of his back, too wide to be fully extended within the cage.

“That’s better.” Magnus throws back his head and laughs. “Yes, now you look like an angel.”

“I will find a way to free myself,” Castiel warns him. He straightens up to his full height, his wings dragging behind him. “Or if I do not--” He casts a look at the next cage, the woman’s calm features at odds with the rage in her eyes. “She will.”

Magnus shrugs. “Perhaps. But I have caught you, and I will keep you. At least for a time.”

Whistling to himself, he strolls away, and Castiel sinks to the ground, gripping the bars of his cage until they dig into his palms, leaving angry red marks on his vulnerable flesh. Defeated, he maneuvers his ungainly new form until he is facing away from the bars, staring at the blank side of the wagon, his back as straight as he can keep it despite the weight of his wings dragging him down. If they are what people want of him, what they expect, then they are what Castiel will give them.

That first afternoon, there are no visitors. Castiel sits in silence, a litany of his own mistakes repeating over and over in his mind, as the sun gradually sinks in the west. It is not until full dark that he stirs, hearing a muffled noise from behind him.

Expecting to see Magnus, Castiel turns with a demand for freedom springing to his lips. It fades quickly as he takes in the man standing before him, taller and younger than Magnus. “Who are you?” he snaps. An assistant, most likely, come to gape or jeer at him.

“So it is true,” the man says softly, eyes widening. He pushes his long hair away from his face and slowly shakes his head. “An angel, here in our midst.”

Castiel scoffs at his easy acceptance of Magnus’ glamour. How easily they are misled, these humans. “I am no angel,” he says firmly. “It is your master’s art that has made me appear so.”

A wry smile appears on the man’s lips. “I hate to contradict a being of such enormous power,” he says, “but you are an angel. Those wings may be false, but they are a distraction, nothing else. I can see beneath them, to the power and truth of what you are.” He offers a low bow, then, more courtly than Castiel would expect from one dressed so humbly. “My name is Samuel, and like Magnus, I have some skill in the magical arts.”

While he suspects that statement is intended to gain his trust, it has the opposite effect on Castiel. He turns away again, lifting one wing in an exaggerated shrug. “Magic brought me here, and secured the bars of this prison. I have no goodwill towards magic, nor towards those who practice it.”

“Not even if it can set you free?”

A thrill of hope runs through Castiel’s body. “You can do that?” He looks back over his shoulder, inspecting Samuel more closely. He is young, yes, but there is something in his bearing that commands respect, and something in his eyes that hints at a greater knowledge of the world than one would normally acquire at such an age. 

“Yes,” he responds. “But not tonight. Magnus will be uneasy, restless with the thrill of having caught you. I will return tomorrow, and we will leave this place together.”

It is most likely an empty promise, the boast of one more confident in their powers than they have reason to be. Castiel will not count on Samuel for deliverance, but neither will he dismiss him out of hand. “Very well,” he says. “You will find me here.”

A glimmer of humour enters Samuel’s eyes as he bows again. “Yes, I expect I will.” He turns to leave, then glances back over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, there will be guests. They will swoon and sigh and shake the bars of your cage, but do not frighten them. If Magnus is angered, our chances of escaping will be greatly lessened.”

“I will do my best.” Castiel inclines his head gravely, and with a last nod, Samuel melts back into the shadows, leaving Castiel alone once more.

He is weary, and the night air is cold on his delicate skin, but sleep eludes him. Soft, restless cries echo from the wagons around him, and though he cannot see their occupants, their distress is evident. 

Not the reaper, though. If Castiel angles his gaze through the bars of his cage, he can see her, swathed in darkness even deeper than that of the night surrounding them. There is a stillness to her, an aura of patience, that he finds disquieting. He is a being of light and movement, and she is the utter opposite. Even when he turns away again, curling into the corner of his cage and awkwardly folding his wings around himself, he imagines he can feel her eyes on him. Watching, and waiting. 

Eventually, he succumbs to slumber. The next thing Castiel knows, someone is rattling the bars of his cage, and he opens his eyes to see Magnus grinning broadly at him. “Rise and shine, my friend!” he says. He is dressed in an absurd outfit, red and gold and shiny black boots, with his hair slicked away from his face and a gleam in his eyes. “Today, you make your grand debut.”

Castiel says nothing.

He stares at Magnus with the full force of his power coiled behind his eyes. It is restrained, but it is not diminished. The grin slowly fades from Magnus’ face, replaced with a petulant sneer, and he turns sharply on one booted heel. “Samuel! Are the others ready?” he calls as he strides away.

Once he is gone, Castiel stretches his wings as best as he is able in the confining wagon. They are, he admits, rather magnificent, even if this form bears no real resemblance to the truth of an angel’s appearance. As much as he hates the thought of being on display, of being stared at, he can understand why he makes an impressive sight.

The first visitors are a pack of youths, faces spotted and limbs gangly. Castiel sighs inwardly as he watches them make their circuit of the wagons, then straightens his back and moves to the centre of his cage, waiting for them to approach.

Their faces reflect a variety of emotions: confusion, awe, even some fright. One of them reaches out a hand before quickly snatching it back, to the gentle laughter of the others. Castiel could speak to them, but he does not. They may form their own impressions from his silence.   
When they leave, the smallest of them casts a look back over his shoulder, eyes longing, but at a shout from the others, hurries away. 

The rest of the day follows much the same pattern. Small groups drift through the circle of the wagons, staring at each of the occupants in turn. Samuel wanders about, wearing a rather ridiculous blue and yellow costume, juggling brightly-coloured balls and performing other simple tricks that the humans seem to find highly amusing. It does not inspire confidence in his abilities, but Castiel hopes there is more to him than these small feats.

If there is not, it is likely Castiel will spend many more days this way, and that is a thought he simply cannot entertain. 

The last spectators leave just as the sun is beginning to set. Castiel hears them talking excitedly to one another, vowing to return again the next day and to bring more of their acquaintances. Their pleasure in the captivity of other creatures disgusts him, though it does not entirely surprise him. Humans have long had a capacity to distance themselves from others, to care only for their own profit and comfort. Magnus may be the mastermind behind this spectacle of suffering, but it is his guests who ensure its continued success.

It is in this mood that Magnus finds him at twilight. Castiel glowers at him from the shadows of his cage, but Magnus just laughs. “You’ll become accustomed to it, in time,” he says, leaning in close to the bars. “One day, and you’ve already brought me more than I’ve ever taken in a single afternoon. Word will soon spread that Magnus has an angel in his keeping, and maybe one day, you’ll even get a bigger wagon.”

He grins at Castiel as though inviting him to share in his good humour. Castiel inhales deeply and summons every ounce of his power. It fights against the bonds of Magnus’ magic, but his eyes flash, illuminating the cage for a fraction of a second, and Magnus stumbles back.

“You will learn to control yourself, in time,” he snaps. “They all do.” He waves his arm at the other wagons, at what could be Castiel’s future if Samuel does not prove able to free him. “Think on that, angel. Think on that.”

He spits on the ground before Castiel’s cage and heads off towards the fire glowing at the other side of the camp. It is only once he is out of sight that Castiel allows himself a satisfied smile.

With growing impatience, he waits for Samuel’s arrival. It is not until the middle of the night that he appears, and were they not in such need of stealth, Castiel would scold him for it. He keeps his peace, though, watching with interest as Samuel rolls up the sleeves of his dark shirt and bows his head over the lock on Castiel’s cage.

Light flares from his hands, but his body is angled to shelter it from any eyes glancing their way. He mumbles something under his breath, and the lock clicks, but when he tests it, it does not give. Samuel frowns and tugs at it, and it makes a sharp whistle that he cuts off by instantly removing his hands. Castiel tenses, but no one approaches. 

“You said you have some skill in the magical arts,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “How much is ‘some’ skill?”

Samuel looks up and shrugs, mouth tight. “Not as much as Magnus, unfortunately.”

He makes a complicated gesture with his hands, and the lock glows white for a moment. He reaches for it, then draws back with a small cry of pain. Castiel’s fragile confidence in him is steadily decreasing, and more than anything he hates how helpless he feels, unable to make use of his own power. 

“Right.” Samuel shakes his hair back from his face, eyes determined. “Let me--” He folds his hands together and whispers a few words, voice rising slightly as he continues. Castiel casts a nervous glance towards the fire, desperately hoping they will not be overheard. 

The lock glows white again, but this time Samuel does not reach for it immediately. He snaps his fingers, and the light fades, the usual dull sheen of the metal returning. Frowning, Samuel snaps his fingers again, but nothing happens.

Castiel exhales slowly and turns away. It appears as though this cage will continue to hold him for the foreseeable future. He does not look back at Samuel as he says, “I thank you for your efforts. Leave me now, please.”

“Not yet,” Samuel mutters fiercely. Castiel turns his head, ready to make a more firm demand, as Samuel claps his hands together, and with a sharp crack, the lock falls to the ground, smoking heavily. 

“Quickly now,” he urges, throwing open the door. “Someone will have heard that.”

Castiel stumbles out onto the grass, his wings trailing behind him. Every instinct in his body tells him to run, but just then, a low, mournful howl pierces the night.

He turns to see the lion at the edge of its cage, looking out at them. “Not yet,” he says. “Let them go. I will not leave them to suffer while I escape.”

“There is no time!” Samuel is already making for the edge of the camp. “We must go.”

“Not without them.” Castiel folds his wings behind himself as neatly as he can and levels Samuel with a cold stare. “You did it once, you can do it again. Set them free.”

With a muffled curse, Samuel sprints to the nearest cage. The lock falls, and the lion bounds out with a grace that belies its age, twining gratefully around Castiel’s ankles before darting off into the night. Samuel moves to the next cage, and the peacock lets loose a small cry before it too disappears from sight.

Only one cage remains. Samuel hesitates, glancing back over his shoulder. Castiel approaches slowly, eyes fixed on the unmoving figure in the centre of the cage. The reaper maintains her unnatural stillness, but fury rolls off her in waves. 

She is dangerous, even caged. Loose, she may very well be their undoing.

“Let her go.” Castiel speaks before he is even aware he has made a decision. Samuel opens his mouth to protest, but Castiel cuts him off. “Do it.”

His hands tremble as he approaches the reaper’s cage, but he does as instructed. He speaks the words, and the lock falls to the ground. Samuel immediately springs back as the reaper uncoils herself, darkness swirling around her, revealing those calm, ageless features.

Behind them, someone laughs.

“Bravo, my apprentice,” Magnus says as he strolls forward. His eyes are fixed on the reaper. “I never doubted your ability to undo my work, only your courage to do so.”

“Run,” Castiel murmurs to Samuel. “Go, now.”

Quietly, Samuel begins to creep away. Castiel takes two steps backwards, but cannot draw his gaze away from the scene unfolding before him. 

“You knew what I was, and yet you chained me.” The reaper’s voice sends a chill down Castiel’s spine. “You thought you could keep death contained, but I have been with you since that moment. I have waited, and now, you will be mine.”

An urgent hand closes above Castiel’s elbow as Samuel tugs him away. He resists, feet firmly planted on the ground.

“But I will live forever in the tales of those who have seen my marvels,” Magnus says, shaking his head. His eyes gleam with fanatical light even as he walks towards his doom. “I will forever be the man who captured a reaper.” He darts a look towards Castiel, then turns his gaze back to the reaper. “And an angel.”

“No.” There is no mercy, no pity in her cold voice. The darkness has pooled at her feet, but she raises her hands as she descends from her cage, and it rises to meet her. “They will remember me, and they will remember the angel. They may even remember that we were bound, for a time. But your name will be lost, your memory nothing but wind.”

Castiel draws in a startled breath and turns away. He clings to Samuel’s arm for support, the weight of his wings making him clumsy and awkward. 

Behind them, Magnus begins to scream.

At the edge of the clearing, Castiel turns back. Where Magnus stood, there is only a roiling mass of darkness. He cannot see the reaper behind it, but he imagines she is smiling. Chilled, he quickens his pace.

They are beneath the shelter of the trees when he finally feels the bonds of Magnus’ magic snap. Instantly, Castiel sheds his false form and soars into the sky, pulsing against the night. Samuel shouts something at him, but Castiel cares nothing for his words. All that matters is that he is free.

He could continue on his way. Find the road south and follow it to whatever end the other angels met. But Samuel helped him of his own accord, and Castiel cannot leave him without even a brief word of gratitude. So he flies back down through the trees to where Samuel still stands, face tilted up to the sky, and resumes his wingless human form. 

“Thank you,” he says. He inclines his head gravely. “For setting me free.” He hesitates, having learned a lesson about human nature over the past few days, then offers, “If there is something I might do for you in return, you may ask it of me now.”

Samuel blinks, then bites his lip. “Might I--” He pauses, then squares his shoulders, meeting Castiel’s eyes. “Might I travel with you, for a time? I have nowhere to go, now that Magnus is gone, and I may be able to offer some slight companionship.” He smiles, something wry in the twist of his mouth. “And I can guarantee us a place at the inns along the way with my juggling.”

Castiel ought to say no. He has already proven he can find his own shelter in exchange for his tales. But his sense of justice persuades him, and despite himself, he is intrigued by Samuel, his youth and his power and how he could work with Magnus before deciding so quickly to betray him. He will remember that, though, and will be careful not to relax his guard entirely.

“Very well,” he says. “I am heading south.”

Something passes over Samuel’s face too quickly for Castiel to identify it, and he gives a slow nod. “South it is, then.” He pauses, then asks, “Might I know your name? If we are to be companions on the road.”

“Emmanuel,” Castiel answers. It is safer this way. Even if Samuel knows his true nature, he will not know his true name. There is too much power in it. 

Samuel makes him a brief bow, smiling as he rises. “Well met, Emmanuel. As we are likely to spend a great deal of time together, l think you ought to dispense with formalities, and simply call me Sam.”


	3. Chapter 3

It is not until the next afternoon that Castiel poses the question he has been turning over in his mind ever since Sam appeared outside his cage. 

“Why did you decide to release me?” he asks abruptly, cutting into the comfortable silence that had fallen between them. “Magnus mentioned it, that he knew you had the ability all along. Why did you never take pity on those other creatures, and only act after I arrived?”

Sam’s mouth compresses into a thin line, but his displeasure seems directed more at himself than at Castiel. 

“Was it a lack of courage, as Magnus suggested?” Castiel presses.

At that, Sam exhales noisily. “Perhaps,” he admits. “It is difficult to put into words.” Stretching his hands in front of himself, he summons a small ball of light and tosses it gently from hand to hand. “Small tricks, illusions, quick workings-- these come to me easily, with little effort. Anything larger-- I might be able to do it, but it is unpredictable. There is no guarantee of its success. You saw how many attempts I went through before I was able to secure your release.”

“That is not an answer.” Castiel looks at him again, considering. “I doubt the sight of me suddenly inspired courage in you that was not there before. There is something else.”

Sam shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “You see far too much, Emmanuel.” He falls silent for a moment, then closes his hands, the ball of light disappearing instantly. “It was not courage that prompted me to act. It was spite.”

Castiel arches an eyebrow at him. “Spite?”

Staring straight ahead, Sam’s voice takes on a distant tone. “I was not always an assistant to Magnus. I have only travelled with him for the past five years.” He glances quickly at Castiel, then looks away again. “I am a magician, but in addition to that, I am the younger son of King John of Kartovale.”

Though he cares little for the titles and powers of human monarchs, Castiel is intrigued. “A prince?”

“Yes.”

It does not entirely surprise Castiel. He had noted Sam’s regal bearing, the courtesy of some of his gestures and speech. Royal blood helps to explain those mannerisms, but not his actions towards Castiel.

“I know little of Kartovale,” Castiel says. “Why did you leave and seek employment in such a tawdry affair as Magnus’ show?”

“My father and I do not always have the most harmonious relationship,” Sam answers, mouth compressing again. “He did not wish me to use my abilities, so I left. And when I saw you, imprisoned and humbled, I saw a chance to rebel against him, even without his knowing of it.”

Castiel frowns, wondering if there is a layer of human emotional complexity to this he is not grasping. “I do not understand.”

Sam looks back at him, blinking. “Well. Helping an angel. He would not approve of that, of course.”

It is the casual tone, the assumption that Castiel would have already known this, that has him suddenly tensing. “You forget, Sam, I have long been out of touch with the human world. Why would he not approve?”

Sam opens his mouth, then shuts it again, his eyes narrowing. “He hates angels. I thought it well-known, even in neighbouring lands. In the southern kingdom of Kartovale, King John sits on his lonely throne, and rails against the angels who failed to protect his queen.”

There is pain in his voice, masked by his light tone, but Castiel does not stop to acknowledge it. “They told me, at the inn a few nights ago, that to mention angels further south would be an unwise decision. Is this why?”

“Most likely, yes.” Sam frowns, then. “If you knew of this, why are you determined to continue south?”

Castiel slows his steps, mind racing. Should he bring Sam into his confidence, explain the purpose of his journey? He could be a helpful ally, especially in light of this new information concerning his background. It seems Castiel will have to travel to Kartovale, and Sam would make an excellent guide.

“Before you saw me in that cage,” he says quietly, “had you ever seen an angel before?”

“No.” Sam’s answer is swift and decisive. “My father talked of them often, but I had never seen one.”

“I have not seen another in many years,” Castiel admits. “I heard a whisper, a rumour, that all the angels were gone from these lands. Obviously, that is untrue, as I am here. But if there are indeed no others--”

Understanding dawns in Sam’s eyes, but it is quickly tempered by hesitation. “If there are no others, is it answers you seek? Or is it vengeance?”

In this, at least, Castiel will be honest. “I do not yet know.”

Exhaling slowly, Sam nods. “Very well. We will travel south, but we must avoid my father’s castle. If we are careful, we may find some answers in the outlying villages.”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head. “It is to your father’s castle that we must go. I cannot explain it, Sam, but my instincts have been guiding me south since the moment I left my forest behind. And now you tell me he hates angels with a passion strong enough to make his people afraid to even mention them? If I am to find answers anywhere, it is there.”

He can see Sam’s struggle in the way his hands clench at his sides, in the flash of his eyes. After a moment, he subsides, though he does not look pleased with Castiel’s decision. “You ask much of me,” he says quietly. “But I asked to accompany you on your journey, and I will not alter my course now.” He laughs then, a bitter sound. “And so home I go.”

Castiel supposes he ought to express some gratitude in this moment. “Thank you,” he says, the words stiff and unfamiliar. An angel thanking a human, what a novel thing. He casts a sidelong look at Sam, noting the set of his shoulders and the shadows behind his eyes, and softens his voice. “And I am sorry. About your mother.”

Sam flinches and does not respond.

Two days later, the road has taken them deep into a forest not dissimilar to the one Castiel calls home. He breathes in the lush air, a wave of peace washing over him. He has not felt this comfortable since he began his journey.

By contrast, Sam is nervous, constantly glancing at the trees surrounding them. He says little, and moves with exaggerated quiet. Castiel wonders what it is that he fears in these woods, but he does not ask. He senses he would only be scolded for making noise.

When Sam comes to a sudden halt and flings an arm up, Castiel nearly stumbles into him. “Quickly,” Sam mutters under his breath, pulling Castiel off the road. “Hide.”

Now that he is listening for it, Castiel hears the steady drumming of approaching hooves. He and Sam melt back into the cover of the trees, doing their best to remain out of sight. Castiel is momentarily tempted to change forms, but he has learned his lesson. Fragile as this body might be, it is safer to travel as a human. 

He does not enjoy the fear that spreads through his body. It is a natural reaction, he knows, but one he is unaccustomed to. The hoofbeats grow louder, and through a gap in the branches, Castiel soon sees the approaching riders.

They are dressed in shades of brown and green that allow them to blend easily into their surroundings. They all carry visible weapons, hilts of swords at their waists or bows and quivers slung over their shoulders. Their faces are hardened, their eyes cold. 

“Bandits.” There is a sneer in Sam’s voice, quiet as it is. “Likely returning from a raid on some poor, honest farm.”

Whether it is his words or something else that draws his attention, the leader of the bandits holds up a hand and the procession comes to a sudden halt. Sam curses and turns to move deeper into the woods, but he is caught fast in a pair of strong arms as more bandits emerge from the trees around them. Castiel has no clear path to escape, so he slowly raises his hands, signalling his surrender.

If they attempt to cage him, though, they will not find him nearly so cooperative. 

“Well, well. What do we have here, lads?” the leader asks, giving them a long, considering look. “Two travellers, well-dressed and strong, by the looks of them. Just the types to join our merry band, hmn?”

The other bandits laugh, but a derisive snort sounds from somewhere at the back of the group. “More mouths to feed? I think not, Mick.”

A slender, red-haired woman pushes her horse forward, eyeing Sam with distrust and perhaps something else, something Castiel cannot determine. Her gaze swings to Castiel, and her eyes flare wide, though she quickly masks her reaction. “Let these two pass,” she says, crossing her arms over his chest. “We’ve done well enough for ourselves this day.”

“And where is the fun in that, Rowena?” The leader claps a jovial hand on her shoulder, and Castiel notes the way she flinches at the touch. “Come along, you two. You look as though you could entertain us for the evening.”

“You did say that was a skill you could offer,” Castiel reminds Sam as they are led away.

Sam frowns at him, unamused. “This was not exactly what I had in mind.”

The bandits are rough, but cheerful. They lead Sam and Castiel to a camp deep in the woods, where they are greeted by more of their group, and they gather around a roaring fire with tankards of ale and fresh bread from the packs they carry over their backs. Sam refuses to eat or drink at first, radiating displeasure, but eventually relents. 

As the night wears on, the bandits grow increasingly intoxicated, their movements looser and their voices louder. Sam is given little choice but to juggle for them, tossing empty tankards in a never-ending loop. A knife-throwing contest ends when one of them narrowly misses skewering the leader. Through all the raucousness, Rowena slips quietly around the fire, refilling mugs but saying little. She watches Sam and Castiel with an intensity that makes Castiel uncomfortable, though he cannot say why.

“You there.” The leader’s voice startles Castiel. “Your friend has amused us well enough, but it is your turn now. Do you sing? Dance? Perform tricks like the tall one?”

Castiel shakes his head. “None of those things, sir.”

“Then what are you good for?” another of the bandits jeers.

“I tell stories,” Castiel answers calmly. 

A murmur of interest runs through the company. Those who have drifted away from the fire come creeping back, eyeing Castiel with new interest. 

“Tell us a story, then,” the leader commands. “A tale of adventure and derring-do!”

“Very well.” Castiel folds his hands in front of himself and clears his throat. “Once, long ago, there lived a princess in a high tower by the sea. She was beautiful and clever, but she was lonely, for she had been imprisoned there by a jealous stepmother.”

“This is no adventure,” someone mutters, but they are quickly hushed.

Rowena draws near and makes to refill Castiel’s tankard, but he places his hand over its top and shakes his head. “One day, a rider approached from the east. The princess stared down from her tower as the figure drew near, praying this would be the day she would be rescued.”

He glances up at Rowena as he speaks and sees the way her eyes narrow. Smiling to himself, he continues. 

“But it was no prince, no knight, no bold adventurer come to her aid. It was a old woman, in dusty robes, riding a broken-down mare. The princess was disappointed, and though she was bitter, she invited the woman inside and offered her shelter, for she would appreciate any company, no matter how poor. The old woman accepted, and once inside, she transformed herself into an equally beautiful young woman, smiling at the princess with pride and satisfaction. ‘You have proven true, despite the bitterness in your heart,’ she said. ‘And for this, you will be rewarded.’ Stooping, she placed a kiss upon the princess’ brow, and her power flowed between them. With a trembling hand, the princess brought the walls of her prison crumbling down around her, and she walked free, never to look back.”

The bandits mutter to themselves, casting dark looks in Castiel’s direction. The leader eyes him thoughtfully, then slowly claps his hands together. “A tale well-told,” he says. “Though perhaps not what I had in mind. You will do better tomorrow, friend.”

Castiel inclines his head, but does not answer. He is busy staring at Rowena, at the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes.

Eventually, the bandits drift off to sleep. Sam and Castiel’s hands and feet are bound, firmly though not unkindly, and they are given blankets to keep off the chill of the night. The camp is soon filled with the snores of drunken men, keeping Castiel awake.

He notices the moment someone stirs on the other side of the fire. Though she is swathed in a dark hooded cloak, he recognizes Rowena by her slim frame, and holds his peace as she moves quietly around the fire towards them. Catching Castiel’s eye, she nods once and bends to untie the ropes at his wrists, then gestures to him to unbind his feet while she frees Sam. 

Sam wakes with a startled sound, but none of the bandits stir. Rowena winks at Castiel as she pulls Sam to his feet, and they carefully creep away from the camp.

Castiel waits until they have put some distance between them before turning to her. “You put something in the ale.”

She does not appear offended at his accusation. Rather, she smiles, eyes shining with satisfaction. “I did. They will sleep the night away, and most of the morning. We will be long gone by then, and they will curse and shout and make ineffective threats.”

“Why?” Sam’s eyes are narrow with suspicion as he looks at her. “Why did you help us?”

She glances at Castiel, and he shrugs. It is her decision. “Because that one saw the truth of me, and spoke it aloud, when I have not dared to do so for many years. Because I see some of myself in you, and because what woman would turn down the chance to travel with a prince and an angel?”

For all that he dislikes being recognized once again, Castiel approves of her answer. He also enjoys the way it makes Sam sputter with disbelief, protests rising to his lips. “How could you possibly--”

“You heard the tale he told.” Rowena looks at Castiel, mingled grief and triumph in her eyes. “The power I was given allows me true sight, just as it does you. I see the angel beneath the man in that one, and I see the prince beneath the fool in you.” Her voice sharpens, then. “And I ask you to see the power beneath my appearance as well.”

Sam slows his steps and looks at her for a long moment. She stands straight and proud, meeting his gaze, and eventually, he sinks into a low bow. “My lady,” he murmurs as he straightens. “Forgive me.”

“It is forgotten.” Rowena waves a dismissive hand in the air and turns back to Castiel, arching one elegant eyebrow. “Now tell me: where are we headed?”

“To my father’s kingdom,” Sam answers. “South to Kartovale.” He casts a quick look at Castiel, who nods briefly. “To learn what has happened to the other angels, for Emmanuel fears he is the last.”

“That is a great sorrow, if it is true.” Rowena looks steadily at Castiel. “I will accompany you, if I may.”

He is acquiring travelling companions at a much faster rate than he is entirely comfortable with. But Rowena has helped them, and he senses that her magic far outweighs Sam’s. She will not be without use on the road ahead.

“Very well,” he says. “You did not break free of your tower to remain forever in the company of such men as we left behind.”

“No,” she replies, smiling fiercely. “I did not.”

“Again,” Rowena commands for what seems like the thousandth time. Sam glares at her, but she doesn’t flinch. With a sigh, he raises his hands and frowns in concentration, attempting to put out the flames he has just summoned for their camp.

Castiel watches them with interest from the other side of the blaze. Over the past three days, Sam and Rowena have fallen into a pattern of lessons and practice. Castiel is wary of magic after his experience with Magnus, but he can see that Rowena is even more skilled than the collector was. He trusts her with Sam’s development, even if Sam finds the endless repetition frustrating. There is little else to do, the road quiet once more now that they have passed through the bandits’ forest, and Castiel would rather have two well-trained magicians at his side than one whose skill is unpredictable and uncontrollable.

Once Sam has put out the fire and sparked it again one more time, Rowena nods. “Enough for tonight,” she says, sinking to the ground and holding her hands over the flames. “Tomorrow, we will cross into Kartovale.”

In the firelight, the lines of Sam’s face are grim. “I cannot be certain of my welcome there,” he admits. “My father-- he was displeased, to say the least, when I left. My brother will be happy to see me, though.”

Castiel raises his head sharply. “You have a brother?”

“Yes.” Sam frowns at him for a moment. “Ah, yes. The politics and dynasties of humans are beneath your notice, of course. I had forgotten.”

After this long in Sam’s company, Castiel has learned to recognize when mockery colours his tone. He hears it now, but it is softened by something else, something like affection. It prompts a strange feeling in his chest, one that he pushes aside quickly. 

Rowena nods slowly as she plaits her long hair into a single braid. “King John has two sons. Samuel, the younger, and Dean, the heir.”

“Is your brother also gifted with magical abilities?” Castiel asks. 

Sam laughs, shaking his head firmly. “No. Dean is every inch a proper prince, with the bravery and the boldness and the strength that come with it.” Castiel might have expected the words to be bitter, considering the comparison Sam is clearly drawing to himself, but he hears only pride in his tone. “It is fortunate that he is the elder of us. I would not make a suitable king.”

“He might be a buffer between you and your father.” Rowena tilts her head, looking thoughtfully at Castiel. “And a source of information.”

“Perhaps.” Sam shrugs, and a note of wistfulness enters his voice. “It has been five years since I have seen him, though. We may both be very different people by now.”

“Well.” Rowena tosses her hair over her shoulder and lies down, pulling her blanket over herself. “We’d best get some rest.” Her eyes flick to Castiel’s. “Even you, angel.”

He tries to take her advice, but instead, Castiel passes the night staring beyond the flames, wondering what they will find when they enter Kartovale. He cannot envision it, this land that Sam calls home, and the uncertainty unsettles him. He is close, he can feel it, and yet something tugs at him, beneath the flesh of this human form.

Warning him to turn back now, before it is too late.

In the morning, he rouses his companions and wordlessly begins to pack up their things. Taking their cue from him, Sam and Rowena are quiet as they move back out onto the road. By mid-morning, they come to a swiftly-flowing river.

“The boundary of my father’s kingdom,” Sam says tightly. “There is a ford a mile to the west. We can rejoin the road on the other side.”

“An effective method of keeping the borders protected,” Rowena comments. “Or a way of keeping the people within?”

Sam looks back over his shoulder and gives her a small, sad smile. “I crossed this river five years ago and swore to myself I would never do so again. And yet here I am.”

Before he even realizes he is moving, Castiel takes a step towards him and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder. He snatches it away quickly, but not before Rowena throws an amused look in his direction. Feeling his cheeks burn, Castiel strides away to the west, seeking the ford.

The water is icy cold as he wades into the river. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees Sam stoop and swing Rowena up into his arms. She lets out a noise of surprise, but she smiles, her hair dangling loose as Sam carries her across the ford with ease. When he sets her down on the opposite bank, she opens her mouth, then closes it again with a sharp click. Over her head, Sam meets Castiel’s eye and winks at him. Castiel just shakes his head in response. The subtleties of human behaviour can still confound him, it seems.

At first glance, Kartovale looks no different to the other human kingdoms Castiel has crossed on his journey. They regain the road, as dusty and hard as ever, and pass a few tracks that lead off into the fields on other side, likely towards villages or small settlements. Sam is tense, his head held stiff, but he responds easily enough to Rowena’s questions as they walk. 

A shadow of doubt creeps across Castiel’s mind. What if there is nothing here, neither answers nor vengeance? What if he has come this far, and all for naught? He shakes the grim thoughts aside and focuses on his footsteps, the familiar rhythm soothing to him after so many days of travel. He will see this thing done, and he will not falter along the way.

Perhaps five miles from the river, Castiel notes a strange scent on the wind, like something burning. He strains his eyes in all directions, but sees no evidence of a fire. Sam pauses, also scanning their surroundings, while Rowena rubs at the gold talisman around her neck, frowning.

“You feel it too,” Castiel says to her. 

“Yes.” She meets his eyes and shakes her head sharply. “It is old, and powerful.” She turns to look at Sam, mouth twisting into a grimace. “You did not say these lands were cursed.”

“Cursed?” Sam echoes. “It is a fire, somewhere beyond sight. Nothing more.”

“I can see we have much work yet to do.” Rowena shakes her head again. “No, Samuel, it is not a fire.” 

Castiel can see it now, a gathering darkness on the horizon. “We should turn back,” Rowena says, tugging on his sleeve, but he pushes her hand away. He takes a step forward, drawn further southward even as his instincts scream at him to flee.

It moves with terrible speed, blotting out their surroundings in what seems barely the blink of an eye. Darker than a starless sky, darker even than the shadows that surrounded the reaper. Castiel feels none of the coldness, the patience, or the quiet menace that she radiated. There is nothing here but emptiness, oblivion in physical form.

It calls to Castiel, tempting. He takes another step forward, one hand rising. Distantly, he hears Sam and Rowena shouting, but their words mean nothing to him. What are the cries of humans compared to the call of eternal bliss?

He is almost within its grasp. It splits, forming two tendrils like arms that reach to draw him into its embrace. Smiling calmly, Castiel walks forward to meet it.

Just before the darkness closes around him, a shout like the crack of thunder pierces the sky, and a bolt of pain lances through Castiel’s body. He stumbles, scraping his hands on the rocks that litter the road, and when he looks back up, the darkness has receded.

For a moment, frozen, they regard one another. Then the darkness pulls back, and Castiel lets loose a wordless cry of loss.

“Emmanuel!” Sam moves quickly towards him, eyes wide. “What--”

But Rowena is quicker, pushing Sam aside in her haste to reach Castiel. She looks into his eyes and draws back with a gasp. “What did you do?” she demands, turning to Sam, eyes wide in a suddenly pale face. “Samuel, what did you do?”

Sam flushes an unbecoming shade of crimson. “I asked the magic to save him. And it worked, did it not?”

“It did.” Rowena swallows visibly, and when she speaks again, her voice is heavy with sorrow. “But at what cost?”

“What do you mean?” Castiel pushes his hair away from his face, and as he raises his hands in front of his face, he notices they are still bleeding from his fall. Frowning, he attempts to reform the flesh over his palms, but nothing changes. 

Something cold settles in the pit of his stomach. He closes his eyes and thinks of his true form, willing away his human body, but his feet remain firmly planted on the hard ground of the road. 

Opening his eyes, he meets Sam’s despairing gaze. “What did you do?” he whispers. “I cannot change form. I cannot heal. I am--” He breaks off, choking back an ugly sob. 

“Human,” Rowena finishes, terribly compassionate. 

Sam shakes his hair away from his face. “I am sorry, Emmanuel. But that shadow, whatever it was, had no interest in Rowena or I. Only in you. It must have recognized your true nature. By turning you human, the magic kept you safe.”

“Safe?” Castiel scoffs. He rounds on Sam, who stumbles back a step at his tone. “I am caged once more! Trapped in this useless body, unable even to fix it when it inevitably breaks. Undo this working of yours, immediately.”

Opening his mouth, Sam shuts it again, casting a helpless look at Rowena. She sighs, then slowly shakes her head. “It would be unwise,” she says. “Even if Samuel could force the magic to reverse itself, which is not guaranteed, that shadow would return for you. As a human, not merely an angel in the guise of one, you stand a better chance of discovering what happened to your kind.”

Castiel clenches his hands into tight fists, the pain radiating through his body a distraction from his helpless rage. Perhaps this is what happened to the other angels, forced to change their natures to avoid oblivion. It is a fate worse than any other Castiel has imagined since he first heard that whisper in the woods.

He wants to scream, to pour all his frustration and his loss and his fear into a wordless cry carried up to the sky he ought to be flying through. But it will do himno good, he knows, and he recognizes the truth in what Rowena has said. It is safer for him to be human, here in this land, but he only wishes it were a mere illusion.

He looks down at his hands, still bleeding freely, and then clenches them into tight fists. Sam and Rowena watch him warily, but Castiel looks past them, down the road in the direction the shadow retreated. “We continue south,” he says.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel walks ahead of Sam and Rowena, head held proudly high. They make no attempt to offer empty comfort, for which he is grateful. He could not bear to hear any meaningless platitudes, not now. 

As the road curves slightly, Castiel catches a glimpse of a towering fortress looming ahead of them, illuminated by the rays of the setting sun. He slows his pace and addresses Sam for the first time in hours. “Your father’s castle?”

“Yes,” Sam replies. 

Rowena gives Castiel a sidelong look, as though gauging the likelihood of his lashing out again. “We will reach it soon.”

“Good.” Castiel nods tightly and adjusts the folds of his cloak around himself. The air is growing colder as night approaches, and this body is sensitive to such changes. “Will our approach be noted?”

“Likely, yes.” Sam waves a hand at the stretch of land between them and the castle. Rough hills dot the landscape, and the castle itself is perched high above them on a rocky promontory. “There is no way to approach the castle unobserved.”

“Then let us go, and not waste time attempting stealth.” Castiel strides forward again, ignoring the whispers that pass between Sam and Rowena. The end of his journey is within sight, and more than anything, he wishes for it to be over. 

The land could not be any more different than the forest he calls home. Little grows here, just scrubby patches of sun-burned grass and a few low bushes, long picked clean of any fruit by the birds that circle above them, cawing noisily. It is a grim, barren place, and despite his uncharitable feelings towards Sam at the moment, Castiel finds himself sympathizing with his desire to leave it behind. He glances over at him, at the way his mouth and eyes have gone cold and distant, the way his hands are tightly clenched around the straps of his pack.

It is not anger that he feels in that moment, but guilt. A human emotion. 

Looking away hastily, Castiel realizes the castle is almost upon them. It looms over them, foreboding, and he shivers. 

“We ought to have been greeted by now.” Sam frowns as he tilts his head back to peer at the battlements. No banners snap in the breeze, no voices call down to them from above. “Where are the guards?”

Castiel has no answer for him. Rowena shakes her head, lips pressed tightly together, and they pass through the arch and into the courtyard of the castle.

Sam leads them across the empty stretch of ground, past crumbling fountains and broken statues covered with a layer of dust. The heavy wooden door to the castle proper opens with a groan, and Castiel sees him swallow heavily as he takes a tentative step inside. 

“Hello?” Sam calls out, his voice echoing from the high ceilings. “Is there anyone here?”

Castiel pivots slowly, taking in the hall around them. The stone floor is cold on his bare feet, and a draft blows in through the open door. Arched windows let in the last of the day’s light, and at the far end of the room, an ornate throne sits empty.

Footsteps sound on the stairs in the corner, and Castiel tenses, but they pause before the figure emerges fully from the darkness.

“Sam?”

The voice is deep, rough with disuse and thick with emotion. Sam lets loose a wordless cry and springs forward as the figure hurries down the stairs and into his arms.

Castiel cannot see much of him, covered as he is by Sam’s taller frame, but he can only assume this is the brother. He and Rowena wait patiently, allowing Sam his reunion uninterrupted, and when Sam draws back, wiping his sleeve across his face, he beckons to them to approach.

Now that they have pulled apart, Castiel takes his first look at the heir to that empty throne. He is tall, though not as tall as Sam, with broad shoulders and a face that looks made for laughter. Strangely, Castiel’s first thought is that he does not belong in this grim place, among the ruin and the shadows. 

“Dean,” Sam is saying, “I would like you to meet my travelling companions. The Lady Rowena.” Rowena curtsies, and Dean offers her a deep bow, eyes scanning over her with interest. “And Emmanuel.”

Castiel does not bow. He inclines his head in what he hopes is a suitably respectful gesture, and Dean’s eyes widen, whether with surprise or outrage, Castiel is not certain. But he does bow, his gaze lingering on Castiel’s bare feet, and says, “Welcome.”

Sam glances back into the shadowed depths of the hall where the throne sits. “Is Father--”

Dean’s mouth tightens, and he shakes his head briefly. “He is alive.” A pause, heavy with meaning Castiel cannot decipher. “I can take you to him, if you wish.” 

“Not yet.” Sam crosses the hall and pushes open another door, revealing a smaller, slightly more cheerful room, one with tapestries hung on the walls and comfortable-looking chairs scattered before an empty hearth. “First, tell me why there are no guards on the walls. Why you were the only one to greet us.”

Rowena sinks into a chair, looking expectantly at Dean, but Castiel chooses to remain standing. Dean frowns and spread his hands before him in a helpless gesture. “You have been gone five years, Sam. A great deal has changed since then.”

Sam pushes his hair away from his face, frowning. “Are you saying this is my fault?”

“No,” Dean replies hastily. “But-- it is not unrelated.”

Castiel interrupts before Sam can reply. “Where is the king?” he asks. There is something strange about this place, something disquieting. The sooner he can meet King John, he who hates Castiel’s kind, the sooner he can leave again.

Dean glances sharply at him. “He is in the tower,” he says, looking upwards. “He spends most of his days there, returning indoors only to sleep.” His gaze returns to Sam. “At first, I thought he was watching for your return. But when he dismissed the guards and the attendants, I realized that could not be it, for they would be helpful in alerting him to your approach.”

“You’re saying it is only you and your father, alone in this vast fortress?” Rowena’s voice is heavy with disbelief.

“Yes.” Something flickers in Dean’s eyes, and he swallows roughly before continuing. “For the past six months, yes. We have been alone.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and Castiel is struck by an unexpected wave of sympathy. He has made this journey because he fears that exact thing, and to see his own potential fate reflected here brings him deep discomfort.

“This must be difficult for you,” he says, voice softer than it had been before. “If you might see the lady Rowena and I settled, we will leave you and Sam to become reacquainted.”

Dean’s surprise is writ large across his face for a brief moment before he recovers himself. “That is very kind of you, Emmanuel. I do apologize for the state of the castle. We were not expecting guests.”

“We have been travelling for a long time,” Rowena says. “A roof over our heads is a vast improvement, let me assure you.”

A smile breaks across Dean’s face, and Castiel draws in a quiet breath at the way it transforms him entirely. “That at least we can provide,” he replies. “My chambers are available to you, as are Sam’s.”

Sam grimaces, but Dean holds up a hand to stall his protests. “I’ve kept them cleaned and ready. Just in case.”

At that, Sam softens. He clears his throat, then says, “You may have my rooms, Rowena. I believe you might make good use of the books I have collected there.”

He offers his arm to Rowena, and she takes it with the grand manners of one accustomed to such courtesies. They pass through the door, leaving Dean and Castiel alone.

After an awkward pause, Dean smiles again. It’s more strained, but still striking. “This way, my lord.”

“I am no lord,” Castiel informs him as he follows Dean out of the room. “Just Emmanuel.”

Dean looks back at him over his shoulder, eyes alight with questions, but says only, “Very well.”

The staircase twists as they climb, slitted windows offering views out onto the surrounding landscape. Through one window, Castiel glimpses the sheer drop of the cliff they perch upon and pulls back hastily. 

“Does the height trouble you?” Dean asks, clearly noting his reaction. “Forgive me, I did not think to ask.”

“No,” Castiel says, lying through gritted teeth. Heights should not bother him. He is an angel, made to soar through the skies. “It only startled me.”

Dean gives him a strange look, but does not press the matter. He leads Castiel up one more flight of stairs, then opens a wooden door on the landing and ushers him inside. 

“I hope you will be comfortable here,” he says quietly. “If there is anything you require, anything at all, you only have to ask.”

By the time Castiel remembers his manners and turns to thank him, Dean is gone.

Castiel wakes, groggy and disoriented, with his heart racing and his limbs tangled in the fine linen sheets of an unfamiliar bed. Slowly, it comes back to him: the empty castle, the air of neglect and sadness that hangs thick and choking in its halls.

Dean, in whose bed he now lies. 

Swinging his feet off the side of the mattress, Castiel rests them on the stone floor and braces his forearms against his thighs. He breathes in and out, feeling his heart settle into a more stable rhythm. Glancing out the arched windows, he sees a few faint stars scattered across the velvet-dark sky. He slept for longer than he realized. 

Climbing to his feet, he surveys the chamber with interest. He had been too exhausted, earlier, to truly take note of his surroundings, but now he wanders around the room, studying it with the intent of gaining insight into its usual occupant. 

The room is comfortably furnished, but in no way lavish in its decor. A set of crossed swords hang above the fireplace, while a lighter weapon, most likely used for practice, rests in one corner. There are books scattered on the low table in front of the window, and Castiel examines them with interest: adventure stories, mostly, but a few volumes of poetry and a natural history as well. 

Turning back to the bed, Castiel notes the framed portrait on the table beside it. A woman, her hair a brilliant shade of gold, and something about her eyes and lips that immediately confirms her identity. This is Sam and Dean’s mother, the queen who died so many years ago. 

Unsettled, Castiel carefully puts the portrait back in its place. A low rumble in his stomach distracts him, and he glances out the window again before smoothing a hand over his hair and exiting the chamber. 

He meets Rowena on the stairs and offers a nod of greeting. “Were you able to rest?” she asks, eyes sharp as she scans his face. 

“A little,” Castiel replies. “And you?”

A shiver passes over her. “No. This place is dangerous, Emmanuel, and not only for you.”

Before Castiel can ask her what she means, they reach the base of the stairs, where Sam and Dean await them. Both make polite bows, and Castiel immediately notes the new ease between them. He was right, then, to give them their space. Catching Sam’s eye, he offers a small smile, and the grateful nod he receives in return only adds to his satisfaction. 

There may indeed be danger here, as Rowena fears, but there is something else as well.

“I’ve prepared a meal for us,” Dean says, gesturing them towards another smaller chamber off the main hall. “I would be pleased to become better acquainted with both of you while we dine.”

He offers a gallant arm to Rowena, who accepts it with a graceful curtsey. Sam smiles at Castiel and waves him after them, bringing up the rear. 

He finds himself sitting beside Dean, and their hands brush as Dean passes him the tray of roast vegetables. Castiel pulls back quickly with a muttered apology, but Dean waves it aside. His smile remains politely in place, but there are questions behind his eyes, questions Castiel fears will not remain unspoken for long. 

To head them off, he asks his own. “You are responsible for our meal tonight?”

Dean laughs, ducking his head. “I am sorry it is such a poor offering. Our cook was one of the last to leave, but her daughter had fallen ill, and I would not let her stay in this damp place and risk growing worse. 

“I never said it was poor.” Castiel raises his glass of wine in a salute, and is surprised to see a flush spread across Dean’s cheeks. “To our host.”

“To our host,” Sam and Rowena echo, while Dean busies himself carving the chicken.

The conversation flows as easily as the wine, and as the evening progresses, Castiel finds himself relaxing. Sam and Dean banter comfortably with one another, and when Rowena enters the fray with an exaggerated account of Sam’s occasional magical ineptitude, Castiel laughs just as hard as Dean does. He offers few words himself, content to observe, but it does not diminish his enjoyment. The rest of the castle may be as cold and as quiet as a tomb, but in this small room, there is warmth and light and life, and Castiel cannot deny that these things call to him now. 

He shrugs out of his cloak and twists to hang it over the back of his chair, but he is clumsy with wine, and it falls to the ground. Dean reaches for it before Castiel can and grins at him as he carefully settles it on the chair. Castiel smiles back at him, and something flickers in Dean’s eyes before he turns back to his playful argument with Sam over who would currently win in a wrestling match between them.

“It’s simple,” Sam says smugly. “I am taller, and in addition to the advantage of height, I can also do magic.”

“That would be cheating,” Dean protests, crossing his arms over his chest and drawing Castiel’s attention to the well-defined muscles in his upper arms. Sam may be the taller of the two, but Dean is clearly fit and strong. 

“There is no cheating in using whatever abilities are available to you.” Rowena gives him a sharp grin and raises a challenging eyebrow. “I suspect I too would be able to win a brawl against you, my lord.”

Dean sighs heavily and casts a pleading look at Castiel. “And you, Emmanuel? What hidden talents do you possess that would enable you to defeat me as soundly as your companions claim they could?”

He barely catches himself in time. The words are already upon his lips, a boast about his ability to take any form he desires, to heal himself, to fly, when Castiel realizes they are no longer true. He is human, diminished. 

Reality strikes him with a force like a blow to the gut, and his voice is harsh when he replies, “None. None at all.”

The laughter behind Dean’s eyes dims, and both Sam and Rowena look up sharply at Castiel’s tone. “We would ask you to be our judge, then,” Rowena says smoothly, but the moment has passed, and the levity has faded.

In the silence that falls, the approaching footsteps echo like the tolling of a bell.

Dean tenses, exchanging a grim look with Sam. Rowena sits upright, smoothing her dress and fixing a smile to her lips. Castiel, still furious with himself for daring to forget his current predicament, moves not at all. He knows there is only one person those steps can belong to: the very person he came all this way to meet.

King John steps into the chamber, eyes narrow in a lined, bearded face. There is a resemblance to both his sons in his build, but he moves stiffly, as though he has forgotten the way of it. His gaze is fixed on Sam, who swallows visibly as he takes a step forward, one hand outstretched.

“Why have you returned?” King John’s voice is as cold as his castle, with no hint of affection to warm it. “Why now?”

“I--” Sam begins, but his father waves a hand in the air, cutting him off.

“Why was I not informed of my son’s return?” he asks, turning to Dean.

“Forgive me, father.” Dean rises to his feet and makes a stiff bow. “You asked that you not be disturbed. By anything. I was only trying to follow your commands.”

King John mutters something too low for Castiel to hear, but whatever it is causes a grimace of pain to flicker over Dean’s face. He bows again, mouth set in a tight line as he rises.

It is only then that John turns to Rowena and Castiel. He looks at Rowena, who stands straight and proud, and his lip curls up before he looks away without a word. Castiel can feel the outrage radiating from Rowena, but she keeps uncharacteristically silent.

Castiel meets the king’s eyes, and in them, he sees only darkness.

He flinches, but holds his ground. King John stares at him, a faint frown hovering over his features, before letting out a slow, deep exhale. “You may stay,” he says, turning away. “All of you. In the morning, Sam, you will explain where you have been these past five years, and why you have returned now with such...” His gaze flickers between Castiel and Rowena before he concludes, “Interesting companions.”

“Father--” Sam says, but John ignores him. Without looking back, he leaves the chamber, the echo of his heavy footsteps slowly fading and leaving the room silent once more. 

Rowena is the first to speak, shaking her head slowly as she does. “I begin to understand why you left this place.” She casts an apologetic look at Dean. “No insult to you, my lord.”

“None taken.” Dean’s words are as gallant as ever, but no charming smile accompanies them this time. “My apologies for the interruption to a pleasant evening.”

“It is not your fault.” Sam’s voice is quiet but vehement. “It is his. Always, it is his.”

“Sam--” Dean moves towards him, but Sam holds out a staying hand. 

“I never should have returned here,” he mutters. And without another word, he sweeps out of the room.

Dean starts to follow, but Rowena shakes her head. “Let him be,” she advises. “Let them both be. This is between them, and I suspect you have long tried to place yourself there. Perhaps it is time they acknowledged that space without you.”

After a long pause, Dean shudders and wipes his hand across his face. When he pulls it away, a smile is in place, but it is strained. “It is likely best if we retire,” he says. “Allow me to escort you both upstairs.”

Rowena accepts his proffered hand, and Castiel falls into step behind them without a word. They climb the winding staircase in silence, and at the first landing, Rowena leaves them with only a slight incline of her head.

Dean turns to look back at Castiel over his shoulder, his features illuminated by the moonlight that spills through the window. He opens his mouth, then closes it again with a shake of his head as he continues upwards.

At the door to his chambers, Dean bows. “Sleep well, Emmanuel.”

Castiel nods and replies, “And you, my lord.”

Dean grimaces. “Might you dispense with the title? It has been too long since I have had company in this place, and I note you do not address Sam so formally. Might we be friends as well, and address one another as such?”

As Castiel hesitates, Rowena’s earlier words echo in his mind: _This place is dangerous_. He bites down hard on his lower lip, the sharp sting of pain a welcome reminder of what he has suffered to be in this place, in this moment. 

He straightens to his full height and attempts an expression of remorse. “I do not believe that would be wise, my lord,” he says, and before Dean can reply, he slips inside the chamber and closes the door behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

In the morning, Castiel wanders the castle. 

He knocks on Rowena’s door, but there is no answer. Earlier, before the sun was even fully risen, he had heard Sam and Dean climbing the stairs, and never heard them descend. He assumes they are with their father, and as curious as he is regarding that conversation, he knows he must allow them their privacy. 

Many of the doors are barred, though not all. Two levels below the chambers he is currently occupying, Castiel finds a large, airy tower room, the early morning sunlight pouring through the windows and lending it a warmth that the rest of the castle lacks. A chair covered in rose-coloured velvet sits in the corner, an unfinished piece of embroidery resting on its arm. 

Castiel crosses the room and picks it up with gentle hands. The linen is smooth, the corners rubbed soft as though from constant handling. On a creamy white field, a small golden crown is stitched, and underneath it, a brief line of text.

_Angels are watching over you._

The embroidery slips from Castiel’s suddenly nerveless fingers. He casts a quick glance back at the empty doorway before stooping to retrieve the piece and brush it off. He traces over the words as he does, wondering. He has little doubt as to who worked on it with such love and devotion. The echoes of the dead queen are everywhere in this place, but the mention of angels is new. 

He puts the embroidery back where he found it and steps towards the window, looking down. From here, he can see the jagged side of the cliff the castle perches upon, and far below, the glimmer of a body of water. A river, most likely, cutting through the valley floor. A light breeze ruffles his hair and stirs the gauzy curtains on the window, the scent of dust and lilacs swirling through the air. 

Uneasy, he backs out of the room, closing the door quietly behind himself. 

He bypasses the main level and continues downwards, the air growing noticeably colder as he does. Here he finds the cellars and the kitchens, and also Rowena.

“Good morning,” she says, looking up from her mug of tea. “Would you like something to eat?”

He doesn’t feel particularly hungry, but he needs to remember to keep this body nourished. “Yes.”

She raises one eyebrow at him. “Then you may get it yourself. I am not your servant.”

Despite himself, Castiel smiles. He pours himself a cup of tea from the pot on the table and ladles himself a bowl of porridge. “Did you make this?” he asks as he sits across from her.

“No.” She shakes her head, shuddering. “I’ve had quite enough of cooking for men who can’t be bothered to do it for themselves. The prince left it for us, before he and Sam went off to talk to their father.” Her upper lip curls in distaste on the last word.

He cannot blame her for her disapproval. While he knows he must eventually find a way to talk to King John, to discover if he knows anything about the fate of the other angels, Castiel cannot deny that he is reluctant to do so. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes while Castiel eats, though he is aware of Rowena’s sharp gaze on him the entire time. It is not until he is draining the last of his tea that she asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Feeling?” he repeats. He frowns at her. “Better now that I’ve eaten, I suppose.”

She mutters something under her breath, something that sounds suspiciously like _men_. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

Castiel sets his empty mug down with a thud. “I feel fine,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“Mmn.” Rowena shakes her head slowly. “I wish there was something I could do, Emmanuel, but to interfere in magic wrought by another is a dangerous thing. And even if I could restore you to your true form--”

“The darkness.” Castiel shudders, remembering it. Remembering how in those moments, faced with oblivion, he felt not fear but longing. A desperate desire to become one with it, to subsume himself to its will and lose himself in its embrace. “Yes. I know.”

“Once Samuel has finished with his father, we will explore the contents of the library,” Rowena says, eyes intent on his. “I will help him find another way to protect you.”

It is a strange thing, to require protection. Particularly through the work of mere humans. But Castiel inclines his head as graciously as he can and says, “I hope you are successful.”

The days fall into a pattern.

Castiel wakes from troubled dreams, hearing the king’s heavy tread as he climbs the tower. Every morning, he considers following after him, and every morning, his courage fails him. He waits alone in his rooms until he can be sure the others have finished eating before descending to the kitchen, where breakfast is always left waiting for him. If he pauses at the door of the library on his way down, he sees Sam and Rowena poring over enormous stacks of books, voices low as they discuss things Castiel does not understand.

And everywhere Castiel turns, Dean is there.

He seems to have made it his personal mission to befriend Castiel. He invites Castiel to ride with him, and Castiel declines, saying-- truthfully-- that he does not know how. This only leads to Dean offering to teach him, an invitation Castiel also declines. He asks if Castiel would like to accompany him on a patrol of the lands surrounding the castle, and Castiel raises one eyebrow and informs him that he spent many days journeying here and has no desire to go tramping across the countryside again so soon. 

Dean’s smile never dims, though his eyes grow more clouded with questions every time Castiel refuses his company.

Castiel is not here to make friends. He is here to find answers. It occurs to him, early on, that Dean might know something, but the thought of forging a connection only to exploit it is distasteful to Castiel, and he will not do so except as a last resort. So he keeps his distance, and he continues to explore the castle, searching for something he cannot explain.

Nearly a week after their arrival, frustrated with his fruitless wanderings, Castiel leaves the main hall, seeking fresh air. Taking two steps out into the courtyard, he draws up short at the sight before him.

Dean’s body is bathed gold in the spring sunlight, his bare chest and arms gleaming with exertion. A practice sword, similar to the one that stands in the chambers Castiel now occupies, whistles through the air as he moves through a series of exercises. His face is intent, eyes focused on some distant point, and he does not break pattern at Castiel’s approach. 

And so Castiel continues to observe him.

As he suspected, Dean is well-muscled, particularly in the shoulders and chest. He moves with the ease of long familiarity, and Castiel finds himself wondering how old he was the first time he picked up a sword and who he might have sparred against in the days before the castle emptied, leaving him to this solitary dance.

Suddenly, Dean halts, and he swings his head around to meet Castiel’s gaze. He immediately lowers the sword and clears his throat, eyes wide. “Good morning, Emmanuel.”

“Good morning.” Castiel can think of nothing else to say. “I came to take the air.” The weather is always a safe subject among humans, he has learned. “It is a beautiful day.”

“It is,” Dean agrees. He lets the point of his sword rest against the earth, scrubbing one hand over his face. When he lowers it, his eyes scan over Castiel’s form, considering. “Do you wield a blade?”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head firmly. “I have little interest in killing.”

Dean frowns at him. “There’s more to it than that.” He takes a step forward and holds the sword out to Castiel, hilt first. “Would you like to learn?”

Castiel’s hand opens and closes at his side. If there is vengeance to be sought, perhaps it is to be earned at the point of a blade. But looking into Dean’s face, the earnestness in his eyes, he knows that is not what Dean is offering. 

“No,” he says quietly. “I apologize for disturbing you. Good day, my lord.”

He ignores the sigh that echoes through the courtyard as he flees.

The castle continues to frustrate him. For every door that opens to his touch, two more are locked, and Castiel spends half his days wondering what secrets lie behind those wooden barriers. He could ask Sam or Rowena for a spell to open the locks, but he finds himself resenting the thought of requiring their aid once more. This is his mission, after all, and his responsibility. They are doing enough, with their research and their practice. He will not ask any more of them.

On another day, after carefully checking that the courtyard is unoccupied, Castle leaves the main part of the castle and crosses to the outbuildings within the walls. The long, low building in the eastern corner must have once been the guards’ barracks, but now stands empty and crumbling, home only to a few mice that scurry away at Castiel’s approach. 

Beyond the barracks, he finds the stables. A soft whicker greets him as he enters, and Castiel quickens his pace, drawn to the occupied stall in the centre of the row. A bay mare pushes her elegant head over the door of her stall, immediately butting up against Castiel’s chest. He laughs softly and strokes her nose, looking about as he does. The next stall also shows signs of occupation, though it is currently empty.

“I hope you do in fact have a friend here,” he says to the mare. “I know what it is, to be the last, and I would not wish that upon such a sweet lady as yourself.”

It is more soothing than he could have imagined, being in her company. Castiel misses the creatures that shared his forest, the owls and the deer and the small mammals he watched over. He wonders how they are faring in his absence, if they would recognize him if he came back to them now, human as he is.

The mare’s ears flick back, and she lets out a whinny, not of alarm but of welcome. Castiel tenses as the sound of approaching hooves reaches his ears, but there is no time to flee. A shadow darkens the door of the stables, and soon solidifies into a familiar form.

“Emmanuel.” Dean’s voice registers surprise, but Castiel barely takes note of it. “I did not expect to find you here.”

Castiel does not answer, too stunned at what he sees. Dean is on foot, leading a tall piebald gelding, but trotting daintily beside him is something neither human nor equine. It is one of the alimpias, the legendary deer-like creatures of the southern lands, and Castiel has not seen one in hundreds of years.

Without fear, the alimpia approaches him, and Castiel raises his hand to greet it. It huffs lightly against his palm, then turns to press its head into his caress. “Where did you--” he asks, voice hushed.

Dean leans against the stable door, watching them with hooded eyes. “They travel across our kingdom every spring,” he answers. “I always seek them out, to watch them ride by, and today, this one stopped.”

Castiel blinks up at him, startled. “It came to you?”

“Yes.” The wonder in Dean’s voice tells Castiel that he knows just how marvelous this is. “I was some distance away, still mounted on Spots, here.” He reaches out to pat the piebald’s flank. “And then I looked up, and she was watching me.”

The alimpia pushes her head against Castiel’s hand one more time, then crosses back to Dean’s side. He runs a hand down her flank, and she twines around him, Spots stepping out of the way with a snort. “I could barely breathe when she stood before us. I thought we were about to be skewered on these horns.” He laughs, looking down at her with awe etched on every line of his face. “And she followed us all the way back here. I do not know why.”

“No?” Castiel notes the way she stands so near to him, the way she shows no fear or discomfort at her surroundings. “You do not know the legends of the alimpias?”

Dean shakes his head. “Will you tell me?”

“I will.” Castiel takes a deep breath, allowing his voice to deepen, to take on the tone of the practiced storyteller. “Once, long ago, the alimpias roamed across the land in groups of a hundred or more. Most humans revered them, marveled at their beauty and their grace, but others coveted them. They hunted them, pursuing them across valleys and deserts, their horses never quite swift enough to catch them. The alimpias began to split into smaller herds to confuse their trackers, for they are as intelligent as they are fleet of foot, and the hunters were indeed torn as to which group to pursue.”

He pauses, meeting the calm dark gaze of the alimpia, and dips his head before continuing. “Among the hunters, there was one more clever than the rest. If they could not catch their prey in a chase, he suggested, they ought to set a trap. They would drive the alimpiasinto a narrow pass between the mountains, and half their force would wait on the other side to pounce upon them as they exited. The other hunters agreed, drunk with their greed. All but one. The man who suggested the plan had a daughter, still a mere slip of a girl, who could not bear the thought of the alimpias being destroyed for sport. So when the party rode out the next day, driving the alimpias towards the pass they had selected for their ambush, she snuck away in the excitement and struck out on her own. She coaxed her steed to its greatest speed and managed to arrive at the pass just before the alimpias, and with strength beyond her years, rolled a great boulder in front of its entrance.”

Dean listens, transfixed. He has one hand resting on the alimpia’s head, and the other twitches at his side. “What happened?”

Castiel smiles. “The alimpias arrived in a thunder of hooves and sharp antlers clashing not long after the boulder was in place. The girl stood, fearless and exhausted, as they halted before her. ‘Turn away from here,’ she said. ‘Or it will be your doom.’ Whether they could understand her speech or were merely deterred by the boulder blocking their path, we cannot know. But the alimpias turned aside, and the hunters were foiled. They chased them for many years, but never did they come so close again.”

“And the girl?”

The alimpia lets out a soft noise, and Castiel’s smile widens. “She was never seen again after that day. Some say she left her people behind to ride wild with the herd, others say she left and founded a new land far away from the greed of her people. But one thing is certain: she saved the alimpias that day, and in recognition of her bravery, they honour certain humans with their favour.” He shrugs, meeting Dean’s eyes. “She must see something in you that she deems worthy.”

Dean gives a disbelieving shake of his head. “I do not know what.”

Castiel thinks he might, but he does not give voice to his thoughts. “You are blessed,” he says instead. “Take care of her, my lord.”

With a brief bow, he turns to leave. “Wait!” Dean calls after him.

Reluctantly, Castiel looks back over his shoulder.

“How do you know such a tale?” Dean asks, eyes shining with curiosity. “I have followed the alimpias every year, and yet I have never heard this story. Do they tell it often, where you come from?” He frowns, then. “Where do you come from, Emmanuel?”

“Somewhere far from here,” Castiel replies carefully. It is not a lie, but nor is it the answer Dean seeks, and he knows it.

Dean lets out a violent oath, shocking in its vehemence. The alimpia shies away with a snort, and both horses make their own noises of disapproval. 

Castiel is rather surprised, himself. Until now, Dean has been nothing but polite and gracious. This burst of anger is both unexpected and intriguing, hinting at depths to his character Castiel has not imagined.

“Forgive me,” Dean says, wincing. He takes a step towards Castiel, then pauses, eyes cloudy with remorse. “That was uncalled for.”

“It wasn’t.” Castiel shrugs. “I understand that you have questions. Humans are curious by nature.” He realizes his mistake too late, and freezes, wondering if Dean will catch the way he spoke of humans as something separate from himself.

Dean’s eyes narrow, but he does not comment on Castiel’s choice of words. “I am curious,” he says. “But I will respect your privacy. You have made it quite evident that you do not desire my company, or my questions, and so I will not burden you with them.”

He clicks his heels together and makes a sharp bow, but before he lowers his head, Castiel catches the hurt clearly etched across his features. It is his turn to curse, now. “It is not that,” he says quietly, and Dean snaps back to attention with a painful hope in his eyes.

Castiel sighs, and the bay mare snorts softly beside him, comforting. “I am a stranger in an unfamiliar place,” he says. “I am not accustomed to sharing my time or my space with others, and I do not handle it well, I know.”

A wry smile hovers overs Dean’s lips. “Your words, not mine.”

Castiel tentatively returns his smile. “I did not think we would stay this long,” he admits. “But if we are to be here for the foreseeable future, I suppose I ought to reconcile myself to that fact.”

“I told you before.” Dean’s face softens, and he takes another step forward. “Anything I can do to make your stay more pleasant, more comfortable for you, you have only to ask.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Castiel releases it slowly. “What will you call her?” he asks, nodding towards the alimpia.

Dean takes the question in the spirit it is offered, an olive branch extended between them. “I do not know,” he answers with a small shrug. “Do you have any suggestions?”

Tilting his head to the side, Castiel examines the legendary creature, who stands patient under his gaze. “In some versions of the tale I told you, the girl who saved the alimpias was named Dianora.”

“Dianora.” In Dean’s voice, it sounds like the most beautiful name in the world. He smiles his approval and strokes a gentle hand along the alimpia’s side. “Yes. I like it.”

“May your time together be joyful,” Castiel says, and is surprised at how deeply he means it.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Castiel is eating his usual solitary breakfast when he hears footsteps approaching. Hastily putting down his mug, he squares his shoulders and adopts a neutral expression. Dean rounds the corner a moment later, freezing in the doorway as he catches sight of Castiel.

“Oh,” he says, blinking. “My apologies, Emmanuel. I did not realize you would still be here.”

Castiel frowns as the implications of Dean’s words sink in. Has he been deliberately avoiding the kitchens later in the morning, trying to stay out of Castiel’s way? It is a noble gesture, but it also sends a sharp pain lancing through Castiel’s chest. 

“No apology needed,” he says softly. He slowly sweeps his eyes over Dean’s form, taking in the loose shirt and worn breeches, the tall boots spattered with mud and the piece of hay caught in his hair. His lip twitches in amusement as he asks, “Have you just come from the stables?”

Dean gives a rueful laugh and smooths a hand down his side. “Yes, I’ve been visiting Dianora and ensuring she is comfortable in her new home.”

“You have a gift for that.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Dean smiles and half-turns as though to leave as suddenly as he appeared. “Have a pleasant day, Emmanuel.”

“Wait!” 

Castiel calls after him without thinking, and Dean looks back over his shoulder, expectant. A plan is formulating in Castiel’s mind, and if he does not act upon it now, he may lose his courage. Drawing in a deep breath, Castiel summons a small smile. “There is so much of the castle I have yet to see. Would you have some time to spare to give me a tour, my lord?”

Dean stares at him for a long moment, confusion and happiness clearly warring behind his eyes. Finally, he dips his head in a small nod. “Yes,” he says, then holds up one hand. “But only if you dispense with the courtesies and call me by my name.”

Impressed at how he has been outmanoeuvred, Castiel laughs. “Very well. Dean.” 

A wide grin breaks over Dean’s face, and he plants his hands on his hips. “Come along, then, if you have finished your breakfast.”

Castiel holds his gaze as he finishes the last of his tea and gets to his feet. “Lead the way.”

They climb up to the main level, and Dean turns to Castiel with a raised brow. “Is there anything in particular you wish to see?”

_Any room that is locked_ , Castiel is tempted to say, but he shrugs instead. “I have seen the castle as it is now,” he says. “Show me how it was, before it fell into ruin.”

The light behind Dean’s eyes dims slightly, but he nods. “I understand. After all”-- he grins, mischievous again-- “it is human nature to be curious.”

Castiel laughs, as he is clearly expected to do, but there is no humour in it. He is not human, and if Dean knew that, knew why he wanted this tour of the castle’s hidden places, he would likely be far less warm towards him. 

Fortunately, Dean does not seem to notice his forced laughter. He looks thoughtfully around the hall, then beckons Castiel towards the left corner. As they cross the room, Dean draws a fine chain out from under his shirt, a tarnished key hanging from it. “We locked up many of the unused rooms as people left the castle,” he explains. “I do my best to keep the place in repair, but there’s just so much of it.”

“And you are only one person,” Castiel adds.

“Precisely.” Dean inserts the key into the lock and it opens with a sharp click. “This,” he says, gesturing to the room beyond, “was the council chamber.”

Castiel draws in a breath as he enters, awed. Though the room is small compared to the great hall behind them, it has the same lofty ceilings, with arched windows letting in the light. In the centre of the room, immediately drawing the eye, is an enormous oak table, surrounded by matching chairs. Maps and charts line the walls, faded now from exposure to the sun, and when Castiel glances down, he sees an inkstain on the worn carpet beneath their feet.

Dean follows his gaze, and a wistful smile appears on his face. “That was Sam,” he says softly. “We were not allowed to attend council meetings, of course, not until we were of age. But Sam was resentful of the fact that this meant I was able to attend four years before him, and he snuck in one day, hiding under the table. I knew he was there, of course, but I said nothing. He almost got away with it, until one of the councillors mentioned something about magic and Sam leapt up, counter-argument at the ready.” Dean shakes his head, smile fading. “Knocked the inkwell right off the table and onto the carpet. Father was furious, and Sam never dared return here. By the time he would have been of age, he had left.”

Castiel watches his face, the sadness that clouds his eyes. “I would guess,” he says carefully, “that he had his own reports of the proceedings from you.”

One corner of Dean’s mouth curls up slightly. “You would guess correctly.”

“Make your reports, then.” Castiel walks slowly around the table, trailing his fingers through the thick coat of dust across its surface. “What would have been discussed here?”

Dean circles in the opposite direction, mimicking Castiel’s movements. “Normal things. The state of the crops, any petitions from the outlying villages. Marriages, births, and deaths. The strength of the borders, the state of the guard.” He pauses at the head of the table, casting a dark look at the chair there, larger than all the others. “As the years went on, my father grew less and less interested in such matters. He would sit here, staring out the window, and mutter to himself about his enemies, though he would never disclose to us who he meant. Eventually, he stopped attending altogether.”

Castiel nods slowly, the pieces coming together to form a clear image in his mind. “Did you sit here, then, when you led the council?”

Dean shakes his head. “No. I did attempt to lead it, but I did not take my father’s place. I suppose I always hoped he would return.” He casts his eyes upwards, sighing. “There was no use for a king’s council once the king was absent, and so the councillors began to leave, just as everyone else did.”

Some undefined emotion lodges uncomfortably in Castiel’s throat, and he clears it roughly. “Show me somewhere else?” he asks, and the way Dean’s shoulders relax proves it was the correct response.

They leave the ground level and climb up two sets of stairs to a floor full of locked doors. “This is where the councillors and other guests stayed,” Dean explains, unlocking the closest door. “I’ve cleaned out two of the rooms for Sam and myself, but the others remain unused.”

Castiel peers inside. The room is far smaller than the chambers he currently occupies, and he feels a pang of guilt at having turned Dean out of his own space. Before he can say anything, though, Dean holds up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “But you are our guest, and though you insist you have no title, you radiate nobility, Emmanuel. Our castle may have fallen into disrepair, but that does not mean our courtesy must fall with it.”

It dawns on Castiel, then, and he cannot believe it took him so long to realize. “You have waited for this day for a long time, have you not? Having people here once more.”

Dean shakes his head tightly. “Wouldn’t you?” He glances upwards again, his face tightening. “I missed my brother. Every day, I thought about leaving, about going to find him and leaving my father here alone, since that is what he seems to desire. But duty always held me fast.” He closes the door gently and turns to Castiel with a sigh. “Now, you are here, and Lady Rowena, and my brother has returned. My waiting has not been entirely in vain.”

“I am glad we came, then.” Not even aware that he is moving, Castiel reaches out and lays a gentle hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s lips part on a sharply indrawn breath, his eyes flicking to Castiel’s. 

Castiel pulls his hand back as though he’s been scalded and clears his throat, taking a careful step away. “Tell me about the people who lived here,” he says. He hopes it will not be too painful a subject, but he needs something else to focus on, something other than the solidity of Dean’s body under his palm, the welcome warmth of him beneath the softness of his shirt. 

Dean relaxes, though his eyes remain fixed on Castiel’s, a curious light behind them. “Well. This room belonged to one of the last to leave, an old retainer who was as gruff as he was good-hearted.” A small laugh escapes him. “He was one of the few who dared to attempt to coax my father back into the duties of kingship, and he would rant and rail against his disinterest for hours. Eventually, he realized it was a lost cause, but only after most of the others had already left.”

“Where did they go?” Castiel asks. He thinks of the paths branching off from the road they travelled, all the places they did not venture. “The villages?”

“A few of them, yes.” Dean’s lips compress into a thin line. “But most of them went even farther away, beyond our borders.”

“I’m sorry.” The more questions he asks, the more pain he causes Dean, and while he is learning a great deal about him through his answers, he is no closer to finding what he came here for. “You do not have to speak of it--”

“No.” Dean shakes his head firmly. “It is nothing. But let’s move on.”

The next level is home to the room Castiel has already explored, the airy chamber he suspects belonged to the queen. He almost tells Dean he does not need to know about it, fearing what memories it will stir in him, but Dean pushes open the door without hesitation, and Castiel follows obediently behind. 

“This was your mother’s room,” he says quietly.

It is not a question, but Dean answers regardless. “Yes.”

“How old were you, when she--”

“Died?” Dean turns to face him, grimacing. “Ten. Sam was only six.”

So young, even by human standards. To an immortal being like Castiel-- or a formerly immortal being-- ten years is but a blink of an eye. He looks around with renewed interest, inhaling the scent of lilacs. It does not frighten him, now, with Dean here beside him. It only makes him sorrowful. “What happened to her?”

It all began here. Or ended here, depending on your perspective. Castiel hates himself for asking, but Dean was the one to bring him to this room. He must have known questions would follow.

“It was so sudden.” Dean crosses the room to stand at the window, his back to Castiel. “One day she was here, working on her embroidery while Sam and I played one of our silly games. The next day, she was gone. A fever, they said. Nothing to be done.”

His voice cracks slightly. “At first, father was furious. He raged against the healers, the attendants, anyone who crossed his line of sight. By the day we buried her, his anger was spent, and in its place was nothing but cold, hollow grief. He ordered this room locked, nothing to be disturbed. We should have seen it then, what would become of this place.”

“You were just a child.” Castiel shakes his head, though he knows Dean cannot see him. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean looks back over his shoulder, face raw with pain. “I never told him, but I used to sneak in here, especially after he began spending so much time on the ramparts. Some of the retainers knew, but they kept my secrets.” He trails his hand over the chair by the window, fingers brushing against the piece of embroidery on its arm. “It helped me to remember her.”

“That was hers?” Castiel nods towards the piece of linen.

“Yes.” Dean picks it up, and Castiel realizes he has held it in just this way many times over the years, wearing its edges smooth. Castiel steps closer and examines it, pretending it is the first time he has seen it. “Angels are watching over you,” he reads aloud. 

He looks up and meets Dean’s eyes, frowning. “I was told it was near treasonous to speak of angels this far south.”

Dean grimaces, carefully placing the embroidery back on the chair and running a hand through his hair. “This is why. Mother loved the old tales, stories about angels and magic and other fanciful things. When she would come to bid us goodnight, this was what she would say to us. When we lost her--” He lets out a shaky breath. “Father raged against the angels as well. If they were truly watching over us, he said, they would not have allowed her to be taken from us.”

What might he have done, in his rage and his grief? Sent his guards out to hunt the angels down, to find them in their forests and groves and rid the land of their presence? Castiel shivers, remembering the great darkness they met on the road south. Surely it must be connected to this tale, to King John’s loss, but he does not know how.

“What do you think?” he asks quietly. He cannot say why, but he must know. If Dean shares in his father’s hatred--

“I think that I miss her, every day,” Dean answers. “And that it is unfair that I had to miss my father, and then my brother, when I needed them the most.” His mouth tightens. “Perhaps that is selfish of me, but it is the truth.”

Castiel lets out a slow exhale. “It is not selfish. It is only human.”

At that, Dean smiles. It is still strained, the sadness still present behind his eyes, but it is a smile. “You seem to be telling me that a lot.”

“It is not intended as an insult,” Castiel replies. His heart beats thunderously loud to his own ears, but Dean does not seem to notice anything amiss. “Just the opposite.” 

Dean’s smile widens. “Thank you, then.” He crosses the room in three quick strides, pausing with his hand on the door. “Come along. Have you spent much time in the library? I know Sam and Rowena have commandeered it for their own purposes, which they insist on remaining secretive about, but if we are quiet, they may be so lost in their research that they will not even notice us.”

He beckons Castiel forward, and Castiel follows. As they approach the library, Dean makes an exaggerated show of walking in silence, and Castiel bites back a smile at the sight, doing his best to match his movements. Their attempts at stealth are ruined by the creaking of the heavy door as it opens, and Dean meets Castiel’s eyes with a guilty grimace. “Brace yourself,” he murmurs. “Sam will be furious with us for disturbing them.”

As predicted, there is a look of extreme displeasure on Sam’s face as they approach the long table where he and Rowena sit. Dean grins at Castiel, then sweeps into a low bow. “My apologies, oh scholars,” he says, pressing one hand to his chest. “I hope we have not caused too much chaos to the careful balance of this place.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but Rowena levels Dean with a glare. “You have,” she says, pushing a loose strand of hair away from her face. “And in punishment, you shall go fetch me this volume.” She holds out a scrap of parchment with a title scribbled on it as though daring Dean to refuse.

Of course, he does nothing of the sort. With another bow and an even broader grin, he takes the parchment from Rowena’s hand. “A quest! And from such a lady as yourself. I am honoured.”

A small smile threatens to break Rowena’s composure as Dean bounds away through the labyrinth of shelves, muttering to himself. Castiel watches him go, shaking his head, and it takes a moment for him to register the weight of both Sam and Rowena’s eyes on him.

“What?” he asks, turning to face them.

They exchange knowing glances, but it is Sam who speaks. “You have been spending time with my brother, I see.”

Castiel feels heat rising in his cheeks and defiantly lifts his chin. “Well, the two of you have been rather occupied.”

Sam grimaces, spreading his hands over the stacks of books on the table. “And we can expect to continue in much the same way.”

Sliding into a seat across from them, Castiel peers at the closest book, but cannot make any sense of its contents. “Have you found anything of note?” he asks.

“Not yet.” Rowena’s voice is tight. “But that is the way of research, sadly.”

“We will find a solution.” Sam meets Castiel’s eyes and swallows roughly. “I am sorry, Emmanuel. More than I can say. For what has been done to you, for what I have done to you. I swear to you, I will not rest until I have made it right.”

Castiel trusted in Sam once before, and his trust was rewarded when the lock on his cage fell to the ground, freeing him. He is trapped yet again, and this time at Sam’s hands, but he finds that trust building in his heart regardless. There is something in Sam’s voice and in his eyes that inspires it, even in these dire circumstances.

Before he can say anything, though, they hear Dean whistling as he makes his way back towards them, presenting the requested book with a flourish. “Your prize, my lady,” he says. 

Rowena takes the book from him with a smile. “Excellent. Now that you have proven you are capable, you may fetch me these others.” She passes over a far longer list of titles, and Dean groans.

Rising to his feet, Castiel takes the piece of parchment from his hands. “Allow me to assist you,” he says. “We will work quicker this way.”

He sees Sam’s small smile, the flash of mischief in Rowena’s eyes, but they both pale in comparison to the feeling of Dean’s fingertips brushing against his.

They pass a pleasant evening with Sam and Rowena, playing cards late into the night. Rowena cheats outrageously, though she denies it, but to no avail, as Sam is declared the eventual winner. Smug in his victory, he offers to teach Rowena a few tricks, and the look she gives him in return would make a lesser man turn and flee. Sam merely grins at her, hands folded innocently on the table, and suggests they might try again another night.

Across the table, Dean catches Castiel’s eye and winks, then makes an extravagant show of yawning widely. “I believe we ought to retire,” he says, “before this comes to blows.”

Rowena sniffs in disdain and leaves the room with her head held high. Sam stares after her for a moment, then rises so quickly his chair clatters to the ground and catches up in time to offer his arm as she begins to climb the stairs. Castiel watches them in detached amusement, but Dean huffs a laugh. “Now that surprises me,” he murmurs.

Castiel turns to him, puzzled. “What?”

“Those two.” Dean waves at the door through which Sam and Rowena have just exited. 

“What about them?”

Dean stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head, grinning. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Emmanuel.” 

He refuses to say any more on the subject, though, instead going through their usual nighttime ritual of escorting Castiel to his rooms before turning back to his own humbler bed. Castiel watches from his doorway as Dean descends the stairs, the light from the torch he carries slowly fading as he rounds the corners of the twisting staircase. Unsettled for reasons he cannot explain, Castiel climbs into bed and is quick to fall asleep, tired from the long day.

He dreams of his forest, the familiar trees and the creatures that live among them. He wanders its paths, breathing in the fresh air, and trails his hands over the trunks of trees he has watched grow into the giants they now are. A squirrel chatters as it races through the branches and he laughs, stretching his hands up towards it, but it is already gone. 

A cold breeze springs up, and Castiel shivers. The forest goes still, unnaturally quiet. Straining his eyes, Castiel sees movement far back in the trees, and then suddenly, the darkness is upon him.

He wakes in a cold sweat, his heart pounding furiously in his chest. Drawing in an unsteady breath, he splashes his face with cold water from the basin beside the bed, glancing out the window as he does. It is mostly dark, though a faint line of light hovers just out of sight. Not yet dawn, then. 

The thought of sleeping-- and dreaming-- again is frightening, so he pulls on a loose shirt and pair of trousers. Curling up on the ledge in front of the window, he watches the sky gradually grow brighter. He wraps his arms around his knees, resting his head on top of them, and inhales slowly, then exhales. In and out, in and out, until his heart settles. 

His mind, however, is not so easily calmed. 

When he hears the footsteps on the stairs, Castiel moves as though he is still dreaming. He rises to his feet and crosses the room, waiting until the sound has almost faded, then slips out of his room and follows as quietly as he can. He has never climbed this high before, and the staircase seems narrower and more crooked than usual. The stone is worn smooth under his bare feet and he nearly stumbles, but he recovers his balance just in time.

The flight of stairs ends abruptly in a circular stone room. A wooden ladder descends from the opening in the ceiling, and Castiel swallows roughly before placing his foot on the lowest rung. 

He emerges on the ramparts and meets King John’s eyes. 

“Good morning,” he says, impressed at how steady his voice is. 

The king inclines his head, but says nothing. His stare is cold, but something burns in the depths of his eyes, something that has Castiel instinctively taking a step back. He skirts the edge of the trapdoor and crosses to stand beside the king, looking out over their surroundings.

From this height, he can everything: the road that led him here, the river they crossed, the thatched roofs of the houses and barns in the outlying villages. It is an impressive view, but Castiel cannot imagine what about it holds the king’s attention, day after day, year after year.

“What is it you see, when you stand here?” he asks. The words sound distant to his own ears, as though someone else is speaking them. 

The king is silent for so long Castiel thinks he may not answer. Eventually, though, he says, “The only thing that makes me happy.”

Castiel frowns, gaze sweeping across the landscape once more. To his eyes, the king appears far from happy. He takes a deep breath, all too aware of how fragile his human body is and how high they have climbed, and says, “Do you see the queen?”

King John’s laughter is a horrible sound. Castiel winces and turns away, but it echoes in his ears, mocking and harsh. “No. Mary is gone.”

“Then what?” Castiel presses. The wind blows his hair across his face and he sweeps it back. “What makes you happy?”

“What makes you happy, Emmanuel?” the king counters. Something unpleasant gleams in his eyes. “My son?”

A denial springs to Castiel’s lips, but it fades as he recognizes that look for what it is: triumph. They both know of which son John spoke, and even Castiel’s denial would confirm it. He sets his mouth in a tight line and looks away, towards the rising sun. 

“He is a good man,” he says quietly. “They both are. They are here, Your Majesty, and they would love you, if given the chance.”

It is not his place, to negotiate a reconciliation between this broken family, but if he can, if he can bring Sam and Dean’s father back to them--

The king laughs again. “I do not need their love,” he says. “I have everything I need, right here.” He narrows his eyes, scrutinizing Castiel closely. “You will not find what you seek here, Emmanuel.” There is an emphasis on the name, a hint that he knows it does not truly belong to Castiel. “My son knows his place, and it is here. He has not left me yet, he will not leave me for the likes of you.”

Ignoring the assumption that he would want such a thing, or that he would ask it of Dean, Castiel shakes his head and turns to leave. He has one foot poised to place upon the top rung of the ladder when the king speaks again.

“Emmanuel.”

Castiel looks up and meets his eyes. The king smiles, looking more like his sons than he ever has to Castiel’s eyes, and says, “You seek to discover my secrets, do you? It is only fair, then, that I discover yours in turn. Consider that a fair warning.”

He turns away, and Castiel takes a step backwards, nearly tripping over the trapdoor. He climbs down the ladder with measured steps, but the instant he reaches the stairs, he breaks. Heart racing, he flees back to his chambers, locking the door tightly behind himself.


	7. Chapter 7

Rowena is the first to comment on his haggard appearance the next morning. “Someone had a sleepless night,” she says, giving him a sly look. 

Castiel merely stares at her, and the teasing fades from her tone. “Emmanuel?” she asks. She darts a quick glance at Sam and Dean, who are absorbed in their own conversation. “Are you unwell?”

“Bad dreams,” he replies shortly. Rowena’s gaze sharpens, examining him closely. He lowers his voice. “Every day we waste here, the more the danger grows.”

“Danger?” Dean turns to them with a frown, breaking off his conversation with Sam. “What danger?”

He should have known that word would attract Dean’s attention. Brave, protective Dean, always on guard against threats to those he cares for. 

“The danger of Sam and Rowena reading every single book in your well-stocked library,” he answers. Sam and Rowena offer weak smiles in response to his poor jest, but Dean just frowns at him, unusually quiet.

After they finish their breakfast, Sam and Rowena retire to the library, Rowena casting an unreadable look at Castiel over her shoulder as she goes. Their conversation is not yet finished, he knows, but it will have to wait until a more private moment.

Castiel rises and moves to follow them, but he’s halted by a gentle hand on his elbow. He freezes, and Dean carefully withdraws his touch, as though Castiel is a horse he does not wish to spook.

“I know you have something you are not telling me,” Dean says quietly. He does not look at Castiel, staring into the hearth instead. “I have known from the instant you entered this place, that you did not come here merely as Sam’s travelling companion. And I will not ask you to reveal what it is. But if you are in danger”-- he looks up, pleading--”or if my brother is in danger, I ask you to let me help you. Please.”

Keeping his eyes fixed on the table in front of him, Castiel traces idle patterns over its surface. “How strange,” he says quietly. “Your father said much the same thing to me last night, though notably, the offer of aid was lacking.”

He hears Dean’s startled oath, feels him draw nearer. “You spoke with my father?”

“Yes.” Castiel offers no further explanation, shivering at the memory of that conversation. “He frightens me.”

He can feel the warmth radiating from Dean’s body, so close behind his. What might it be like, he wonders, to move towards him, to feel those strong arms close tightly around his body, like a shelter from the storm of his thoughts? 

Angels are not made for such things. They do not require physical closeness, or affectionate touches. Castiel can remember what it was like, to be so distant, but he cannot summon that stoicism, not now. He is human, and he is afraid.

He exhales slowly as Dean’s hand rests lightly on his shoulder. “He will not harm you,” Dean murmurs. “It is not in his nature. He has no need to do so. He merely drives people away with his cold and his silence. Please do not allow him to do that to you.”

“I need to leave.” Castiel shakes his head, and for the barest of instants, his cheek brushes against the back of Dean’s hand. 

“If that is what you wish.” He can hear the sorrow in Dean’s voice, masked by his ever-present courtesy. “I will escort you to our border myself.”

Turning slightly, Castiel looks into his eyes. There is very little distance between them, and though his body thrums with unfamiliar yearning, he holds himself still. “No. Not like that. Just--” 

He makes a sweeping gesture with one arm. “I need open space. Fresh air. Sunlight, and the sound of birds.”

He needs to be reminded of his home. Of his true self. It is slipping away from him, and if he does not reclaim it, he fears it will be lost forever.

Dean’s eyes clear, and he smiles. This close, it is even more breathtaking than usual. “I can do that,” he says, and Castiel smiles back. 

They pack a bag with stores from the kitchen, and Dean helps Castiel onto the piebald gelding, Spots, who stands patiently as Castiel adjusts to the unfamiliar feeling of being atop a horse. Dean, of course, rides Dianora, who requires no saddle or tack, only a light touch and a murmured word from Dean to spring away from the castle. 

Castiel clutches tightly to the reins as Spots thunders after her. After the first initial discomfort has passed, he relaxes into the rolling motion of the horse’s body beneath his. Dean glances back over his shoulder, concerned, and Castiel gives him a small salute. Grinning, Dean clicks his tongue, and Dianora increases her pace.

Poor Spots cannot possibly match an alimpia for speed, but he does his best. The wind rushes through Castiel’s hair, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he is flying. 

When Spots begins to slow, he opens his eyes. They are trotting alongside a rushing river, likely the same one that marks the boundary of Kartovale. Dean brings Dianora to a halt and waits for Castiel to join them, grinning. 

“You ride well, for a beginner,” he says. 

The exhilaration and adrenaline still pump through Castiel’s veins. “I suddenly understand the appeal.”

“It’s also far more efficient than traipsing around barefoot.” Dean dismounts easily and offers a hand to help Castiel do the same. He is clumsy, unused to the movement, but Dean is steady beneath him, swinging him down from the saddle without visible effort. 

Once his feet are back on solid ground, Castiel takes a moment to examine their surroundings. Dean has brought them to a small meadow nestled in the bend of the river, with a gnarled willow tree’s branches overhanging the water. From above, Castiel can hear the rustling of wings, though the birds are screened from view by the greenery. It is the most life he has seen in this land, and it leaves him quiet with wonder.

Dean folds his hands behind his back and watches Castiel with what might be nervousness on his face. “I used to come here when I was younger, when I needed to be alone,” he says quietly. “Of course, until you and Sam and Lady Rowena arrived, I was always alone, so I have not been here in some time.”

“It’s beautiful.” Reaching up, Castiel runs his hand along the nearest branch, the fronds swaying at his touch. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“I am glad.” Dean removes a blanket from the saddlebag at Spots’ side and unfolds it on the ground, then offers Castiel a coaxing smile. “Come. Relax.”

Castiel goes. 

The grass makes a comfortable surface to rest upon, and he can smell the tree above them, the slight dampness of the earth, the sweat and hay from the horses. Dean leans casually beside him, one arm over his bent knee, eyes closed and face tilted up towards the light. 

He looks younger here, away from the castle. The sunlight illuminates the line of his cheekbones, revealing a scattering of freckles Castiel has not noticed until now. His eyelashes are tipped with gold, resting softly against his cheeks, and his lips are slightly parted as he breathes quietly.

Dean opens his eyes, greener than the forest Castiel once called home. He holds Castiel’s gaze, steady, and heat rises in Castiel’s cheeks. He looks away, and after a weighty pause, he hears Dean’s tiny sigh.

“Tell me a story,” he says softly. 

Castiel does not dare look at him again. “What kind of story?”

He feels Dean move, the blanket shifting as he lies down, stretching one arm beneath his head. “Anything.”

He knows so many tales. So many stories, so many names and motifs, stretching back over centuries. But this day, this one golden day, will live in his memories just as long, and he must honour it with the story he chooses to tell.

Castiel rolls into a seated position, crossing his legs beneath himself. Dean watches him, expectant, and Castiel takes a deep breath before he begins. 

“Once, long ago, there lived a woman who fell in love with a star. She had known great hardship in her life, loss and regret, but every evening, before she put her weary self to bed, she would look up into the sky and seek out that star, and draw comfort from its light. It was not the largest, nor the brightest, but it was hers, and that made it special.”

Dean’s eyes narrow, but he does not speak.

“The woman grew older, her back bent with age and hard labour. Her cottage was small, her crops meager, but still she persisted, working her fields with love and devotion. She kept to herself, for the most part, but she always had a smile and a jug of water to spare for those who wandered past her land. One morning, she did not rise from her bed. Age had finally caught up to her, and she passed from this world without ceremony, but also without pain. It was the miller’s daughter who found her, surprised not to see her at work, and when she ran to tell the village the news, she repeated the same words over and over again: _she was smiling_.”

A small sound escapes Dean, and Castiel pauses, but Dean waves his hand, indicating that he should proceed.

“They buried the woman behind her cottage, with a small wooden marker above her final resting place. A quiet, humble grave for a quiet, humble life. That night, as the villagers gathered in their homes, they were drawn to their windows by a bright flash of light across the sky. A falling star, so close it seemed they could reach out and catch it in their hands. It disappeared from sight just beyond the old woman’s cottage, and though they could not explain it, they all experienced the same feeling of comfort, as though it was coming home to its own final rest.”

Dean stares at him for a long moment, and Castiel can see the glimmer of unshed tears in his eyes. “Why would you tell me such a tale?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Such a sad tale.”

Castiel’s hand twitches at his side, aching to reach out. But instead, he tilts his head to the side, frowning. “You think it is sad?”

“The old woman died alone,” Dean says, pushing himself to a seated position. “Yes.”

“She died peacefully, after a life she took pride in,” Castiel counters. “And she was not alone, not really. She had the star.”

“I did not understand that part.” Dean pushes a hand through his hair and looks away. “It fell, because she was no longer there to love it?”

Castiel looks at him, the set of his shoulders and the trembling of his lips. The sheer emotional response to such a short tale. “No,” he says softly. “At least, that is not what I believe. I believe the star loved her as well. That it watched over her, her entire life, and it saw that she was good and strong and true. And that when she left this world, they were finally granted the chance to be together.”

Dean goes suddenly still, swallowing visibly. “It must be a wondrous thing, to be loved by a star. To be loved so greatly.”

“Yes,” Castiel replies. His chest feels tight, too small for the swelling of his heart. “Now you understand.”

He has lied to himself, these past days. Pretending he does not understand the nature of human emotion, pretending he is not slowly falling victim to it. He knows what those soft glances he has caught Sam and Rowena exchanging mean, knows why they argue with one another with those small smiles on their faces. 

He knows what the look in Dean’s eyes is now. And he knows that if he were to look upon his own face, reflected in the clear water of the river, he would find it shining from his eyes as well.

“Emmanuel.” It is the wrong name, but it still washes over Castiel like a caress. All he would need to do is lean forward, just a fraction of an inch, and Dean would meet him halfway.

But he holds himself perfectly still, and hates himself for it. “Please,” he says. “Don’t.”

Dean’s sigh whistles through the warm air around them. “Very well,” he says. “But will you at least tell me why?”

Castiel shakes his head, guilt and sorrow choking back his words. “I cannot.”

With a furious curse, Dean surges to his feet. Castiel flinches back, but Dean’s anger is not directed at him. He strides rapidly towards the river, turning his back to Castiel, his posture radiating both hurt and rage.

For all that he is the source of Dean’s frustration, Castiel cannot bear to see him this way. Especially if, as he suspects, Dean is blaming himself for things that are wildly beyond his control. Slowly, Castiel follows after him, stopping a few paces away.

“I am sorry,” he says. The words are inadequate, he knows, but he offers them regardless. “Dean--”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Dean says fiercely, whirling to face him. “It is my fault, for presuming too much.” He laughs, but his eyes are still clouded with pain. “I have been alone for so long, Emmanuel. And then you arrive, with your silence and your stillness, and your eyes that a man could drown himself in, and gladly. With your occasional but cutting wit, with your stories that make me feel as though the world is so much wider than I have ever understood it to be. With your secrets, and your lies, and the pain at the root of them that I wish I could rip out with my bare hands.”

Castiel opens his mouth to speak, but Dean is not yet finished. “I am not a wise man,” he says, voice quieter now. “I do not have Sam’s learning, or his magic, or whatever it is that caused you to attach yourself to him.” Ever so slowly, he reaches out for Castiel’s hand. “But I am no fool. Tell me, please.” He lowers his voice further still. “Please, Emmanuel.”

Closing his eyes, Castiel allows his world to narrow to the feeling of Dean’s hand on his own. The warmth of it, the solidity, the slight roughness from handling a sword or a kitchen knife. The faint pressure of his thumb as it rubs lightly over Castiel’s wrist. 

He wants to tell him. Wants to explain everything. Despite himself, he trusts Dean wholly. But there is a reckoning approaching, and Dean is only human. He does not have the magical abilities that Sam and Rowena do, nor does he have Castiel’s years of experience and motivation to fight. When so many others fled, Dean remained at his father’s side, or as close to it as he was permitted to be. Castiel cannot ask him to choose a side. 

“I can only tell you that are you correct,” he says, and hopes Dean can see the remorse in his eyes. “About me, and why I have come here. You are no fool, Dean, and I am sorry if I have ever treated you as such. You are--”

He stumbles over his words, feeling Dean’s hand tighten around his own. “I am sorry,” he says again. “I think we ought to return to the castle.”

With a slow exhale, Dean withdraws his hand. “As you wish.”

They ride back to the castle in silence. Castiel opens his mouth to speak a thousand times, and every time, his words remain unspoken. When they reach the stables, Dean dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Let me take care of them,” he says, already reaching to remove the saddle from Spots’ back. “Go.”

Ashamed, Castiel goes.

He finds Sam and Rowena in the library, as usual. He slams the door shut behind himself and they look up with matching expressions of outrage on their faces that would be amusing under other circumstances. 

“This has gone on long enough,” he says tightly, approaching them. “Have you found anything? Anything at all?”

They exchange significant looks, and Sam pushes his hair behind his ears before answering. “Yes.”

Castiel sinks heavily into a chair and rests his head on his hands. “Tell me.”

“It isn’t about angels, not exactly.” Sam pushes a small, worn volume towards Castiel. “But it is about that _thing_ that we encountered on our journey here.”

A shiver runs through Castiel’s body, and he strokes his fingers lightly over the leather cover of the book. “What--”

“That journal belonged to an attendant here,” Rowena explains. She taps her nails against the surface of the table, pressing her lips together. “In it, he describes a storm that rolled through the land one night, several years after the death of the queen. In its wake, there came a terrible darkness, and it spread over the land like night without a dream of dawn. The people huddled together, fearful, but the sun rose again the next day, and all was as normal.”

“The darkness returned, on no cycle that they could determine, and always only for one night. The night of a storm.” Sam nods towards the book in front of Castiel. “The account ends a year ago, with the note that it had not been seen in some time. I assume the author left the castle after that.”

“But what is it?” Castiel whispers. “Where did it come from, and what does it want?”

Rowena shakes her head, her hair a heavy curtain masking her face. “We don’t know.”

“Well, find out!” Castiel snaps.

Both Sam and Rowena sit back, startled, at the sharpness of his tone. Castiel passes a trembling hand over his face and takes a deep breath. “Forgive me,” he murmurs. He seems to be saying that quite frequently of late. “I know you are doing everything in your power. I just--”

“You are unwell,” Rowena declares. It seems their unfinished conversation from earlier that morning is now to be resumed. “Or at least, you are not yourself.”

Her words hang heavily in the air. Sam’s eyes dart to meet Castiel’s, then away, but not before he sees the guilt in them. “Yes,” Castiel says. He flexes his hands on the table in front of himself. “I have been trapped in this body for too long. It is...overtaking me. Its needs, its desires, its volatility…I cannot remain like this.”

He looks at Sam until his gaze is reluctantly drawn back. “You must change me back.”

“Not yet.” Rowena shakes her head. “You cannot face the darkness as an angel, Emmanuel.”

“I cannot face this place as a human,” he says dully. 

Sam lets out a long, shaky breath. “I will find a way to fix this,” he says. “But I still need time.” He glances at Rowena, and she nods. “We still need time.”

“If the darkness came from here, it must be kept here, somehow.” Rowena looks around the library and gives a small shrug. “We must find it, before we can fight it.” She looks at Sam, considering. “You are best placed to find out. Ask your brother, ask your father if you can. Surely they must have noticed it. Surely they must know something.”

“I will ask.” Sam rises to his feet, and his hand brushes against Rowena’s as he reaches for a book on the table. A faint flush appears high on her cheeks, and she clears her throat as Sam nods at Castiel and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind himself.

“That was neatly done,” Castiel tells Rowena. “I doubt he even suspects you sent him away so we might have a private word.”

She smiles sharply at him. “A wise teacher never reveals all her secrets to her students.”

“So.” Castiel folds his hands in his lap and looks steadily at her. “What did you have to say that you did not wish for him to overhear?”

Rowena’s smile fades as she gazes at him. “I am worried about you, Emmanuel. What you said, about being trapped in this body…”

Castiel nods. “I can feel myself adjusting to it,” he says. “I dream at night. Terrible dreams. I wake in the morning and I ache all over. Today, I rode a horse.” He laughs, bitterly. “While these might seem normal things, they are not. Not for me.”

“And the feelings you mentioned?” Rowena asks carefully. “Those human desires?”

He looks away, remembering the way Dean’s eyes reflected the sunlight, the feeling of his hand in Castiel’s. “They frighten me more than anything else,” he confesses. 

It is clear he does not need to offer any further explanation. The compassion in Rowena’s gaze speaks to her understanding of the situation. “And does the good prince return your feelings?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Castiel pushes his chair away from the table and rises to his feet, pacing. “Whatever regard he might have for me, whatever I might”-- he breaks off, biting his lip--”feel for him, it doesn’t matter. It is nothing but another cage.”

“Oh, Emmanuel.” Rowena shakes her head slowly. “It is not. I promise you, it is not.”

“It is,” Castiel insists. “It is a gilded cage, one I long to lose myself in. Today, I hardly spared a thought for my brothers and sisters and whatever end they met. All I could think about was Dean, his smile and his voice and his steadfast loyalty to a father who shows him none of the love he deserves. I have a purpose here, a mission. I did not come here to be caught in the snare of Dean’s affection. It will only distract me from what must be done.”

“You are wrong,” Rowena informs him, sadly. “Love is not a cage, but a key. I only hope you can see it, in time.”

She rises gracefully to her feet, her long gown trailing behind her as she crosses towards the door. “We will find the answers you seek,” she says. “I hope they will bring you comfort.”

The door closes behind her, and Castiel sinks into a chair, exhausted. 

He tries to keep his distance, after that. 

But the halls of the castle are cold when walked alone, and Castiel came all this way clinging to the faint hope that he was not alone, that he was not the last. If he wanted to live on, solitary, he could have just stayed in his forest. 

So he ignores the leap his heart makes every time he encounters Dean, the small smile that he cannot seem to keep from springing to his lips. It is mere human weakness, a product of too many days trapped in this body with all its failings and its feelings. 

When he is an angel again, this will be nothing to him. Dean will be nothing to him.

The thought should not hurt as much as it does.


	8. Chapter 8

If Castiel is to find any answers here, the top of the tower seems the most likely place. He must be cautious, though, and so despite his impatience, he takes several days to formulate his plan.

The king spends most of his days at the highest point of the castle, he knows. But even he must sleep, and so Castiel waits, long after the others have gone to their beds, listening for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. In the early hours of the morning, he hears it: the steady thump of someone descending. 

Quietly, he rises from his bed. Pressing his ear to his chamber door, he holds his breath as the footsteps pause, then continue, growing gradually quieter as they move away. He counts the passing seconds, and after ten minutes have elapsed, slips out of the room.

His bare feet make little sound as he climbs. It is dark, and his human eyes do not adjust immediately. His heart pounds as he reaches the top of the stairs and climbs the wooden ladder, pushing open the trapdoor with a grunt. 

He shivers as a gust of cold wind hits him. Wrapping his robe more tightly around his body, he crosses the tower floor and stands at the ramparts, looking upwards.

In the clear sky, the stars shine brightly, so close Castiel feels he could reach out and touch them. He yearns to cast aside his physical form, to fly up to meet them and to dance between their clear light, to greet each one by name. Instead, he can only gaze at their brilliance and mourn for what he has lost.

He allows himself the time to grieve before drawing in a shuddering breath and turning his gaze to his surroundings. The wooden floor is solid beneath him, worn smooth in places. Castiel can imagine the king pacing in circles, a never-ending path worn under his feet. But what he looks at, what it is that brings him happiness, Castiel cannot determine. There is nothing here but the star-filled sky, a silent witness to his growing frustration.

The creak from the trapdoor warns him just in time, and Castiel whirls to face the emerging figure. His foolish heart leaps in his chest, wondering if Dean has followed him here, but as the starlight reflects off the silver strands in the figure’s hair and beard, his joy is quickly extinguished.

“Emmanuel.” The king shows no surprise at seeing him here. “A beautiful night, is it not?”

Castiel nods, hands clenched tightly at his sides. The king wanders across the tower floor and rests his elbows on the ramparts, looking down over the courtyard. Castiel hesitates, then comes to stand beside him, keeping a careful distance. 

“Have you discovered it yet?” King John’s tone is casual, almost friendly, but there is a wicked gleam in his eyes, and Castiel instinctively draws back. 

“Discovered what, Your Majesty?”

“My secret.” The king waves a careless hand around them. “That is why you came here tonight, is it not? Why you waited, thinking yourself safe behind the heavy door of my son’s room, until you thought danger had passed and you would be alone here?”

Castiel bites down hard on his lower lip and says nothing.

“I am beginning to understand,” the king muses. “Or at least, I think I am.” His gaze travels over Castiel’s body, speculative, and Castiel shivers with discomfort. There is something too knowing in the gleam of his eyes, something that leaves Castiel feeling as though he could unravel completely at any moment.

“Look at me.” 

Castiel responds instinctively, his eyes flying up to meet the king’s. He has never heard that note of authority in his voice, and it reminds him that once, this man ruled his land, rather than pacing this lonely tower. 

“Yes.” The king nods, apparently satisfied. “Yes, I see it in your eyes.”

“See what?” Castiel asks hoarsely. He could not know. He could not possibly know.

“You have seen the darkness,” the king replies quietly, his own eyes burning with a strange intensity. “But you have withstood it.”

Castiel goes still. His throat is dry, the hair on the backs of his arms standing up. He remembers the overwhelming emptiness, the sweet temptation of oblivion. “And you?” he manages. “You have seen the darkness as well.”

King John laughs. “Oh, you poor fool,” he says. “I brought the darkness.”

Castiel takes another step back. “What?” he croaks. 

“I brought the darkness, and I will bring it again.” The king is no longer looking at Castiel, gazing out over the ramparts with a wild light in his eyes. “It will cover the earth and it will find the one who escaped it, and it will not fail again.”

He swings his gaze back to Castiel and smiles. “It will not fail again.”

Castiel holds himself perfectly still, the pose of one confronted by a predator and hoping to escape its attention. Slowly, the smile fades from the king’s face, and only a strange weariness remains. “Leave me,” he commands, that note of authority in his voice once more.

Castiel flees.

He does not stop at his room, but continues down the stairs as though the darkness were chasing him, nipping at his heels. On the last level before the main hall, he stops, feet flying down the corridor towards the only place that feels safe.

Dean opens the door, bare-chested and bleary-eyed. “Emmanuel?” he says, voice rough with sleep, and Castiel throws himself into his arms.

At first, Dean is tense against him. Slowly, he relaxes, and his arms encircle Castiel, pressing him closer to his body. Castiel goes willingly, laying his head in the crook of Dean’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his waist.

He does not ask questions, for which Castiel is grateful. His mind is already too crowded with conflicting thoughts and emotions, and Dean seems to sense that, running his hands soothingly up and down Castiel’s back and saying not a word. It feels indescribably good to be so close, to hear Dean’s heart beating in his chest, to smell the salt of his skin and the hint of woodsmoke in his hair. It steadies Castiel, soothes him, and eventually, he pulls back far enough to look into Dean’s face.

Dean’s eyes are clouded but steady. “Bad dreams?”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

He can see the questions hovering on Dean’s lips, can see him visibly swallow them down. Dean draws in a shuddering breath and says, “What do you need? Anything I have, anything I am, it is yours.”

There is a part of Castiel that hates himself for his weakness, his very human weakness. But it is a distant, near-forgotten part, one that saw little good in humanity and dismissed it without thought. 

“I need you,” he answers.

He might have expected a smile, or a laugh, or some other expression of happiness. Instead, he thinks it is sorrow he sees in Dean’s eyes as he raises a trembling hand and lays it softly against Castiel’s cheek. “I would take this pain from you, if I could,” he says.

Castiel leans into the touch, closing his eyes. “I know,” he replies. “I know.”

By unspoken agreement, they drift towards the rumpled bed. Dean sits down first, then swings his legs onto the mattress, propping himself up on one elbow and looking steadily at Castiel. There is a weight to his gaze, but it is of solemnity rather than anticipation or expectation. Castiel allows his robe to fall to the floor, leaving him in just loose trousers, and slips into the bed beside him. 

Carefully, Dean lowers his body, keeping his eyes on Castiel. When he is flat on his back, Castiel curls in closer and lays his head on Dean’s chest. He feels the sharp inhale, then the slow exhale of Dean’s breath, and then a strong arm wrapping around him and pulling him closer. 

“Tell me a story,” he says.

In the faint moonlight, he sees the flash of Dean’s teeth as he smiles. “I thought that was your specialty.”

“Not tonight,” Castiel whispers. Tonight, he needs to be transported away from this fortress of unhappiness. Away from his memories and his terror at the thought of what lies before him. 

“Alright.” Dean shifts slightly underneath him, and Castiel adjusts his position accordingly. Once he is comfortable, Dean begins.

“I have no gift for the kinds of stories you tell,” he says. “So instead, I will tell you about the day Sam discovered his magical abilities.”

Castiel can hear the smile in his voice as he continues. “He was only fourteen years old, gangly and awkward. I was out in the yard, practicing my swordplay with our old retainer, when Sam came bursting through the door, eyes wild. ‘Look,’ he cried. ‘Look at what I can do.’ He snapped his fingers, and a jet of flame appeared. I was so surprised, I dropped my guard, and got a sword across the back of the knee for my carelessness. I still have the scar.”

He laughs softly, and Castiel joins him. “Sam was thrilled. He read every book he could find, talked to everyone in the castle about what they knew of magic. This was before most of them left, of course. They all encouraged him, supported him. I tried to as well, though I did not understand it.”

“Did you envy him his abilities?” Castiel interrupts to ask. He has wondered, from time to time. How things might have been different if Dean too had been gifted in this way.

“No,” Dean replies without hesitation. “His magic awes me, and it impresses me, but I have my own pursuits.”

Castiel nods, satisfied. “Go on.”

“Even Father seemed amused by it at first, when it was just tricks.” Dean’s voice darkens. “Until Sam became more and more powerful over the next few years, creating gardens out of thin air and enchanting the soup pots never to run empty. This coincided with Father’s withdrawal from the running of the kingdom, and with the beginning of the exodus of the castle’s inhabitants.”

He has a sense of where this story is heading. Castiel shivers, and Dean wraps his arm more firmly around him. “One day, Sam was in the middle of a working, an attempt at a defensive spell that would help protect us despite our limited remaining guards. Father came down from the tower and saw what he was doing, and flew into a rage. ‘Protection?’ he shouted. ‘Where was your protection when your mother was taken from us?’”

Castiel flinches. He can imagine the scene well, the shock and hurt on Sam’s face, the rage in the king’s voice. 

“And then he said, ‘The angels ignored us, and you are too late. Take your protection elsewhere, for we have no need of it here. There is nothing left worth protecting.’”

“But you were still here,” Castiel protests, rising up on one elbow to look down into Dean’s face. Though the mention of angels sets his mind racing, he pushes his own interest aside, intent on Dean and the outrage he feels on his behalf.

Dean gives him a strained, lopsided smile. “And so, if we follow his logic, I am not worth protecting.”

“How could he say such a thing to his own child? To either of you?”

“I do not know.” Dean shrugs, eyes sliding away from Castiel’s. “Sam left the very next day. He begged me to go with him, but I could not. There were still people here I cared for, people who needed my help. I worried what would happen to them in our absence.”

“And then they all left as well.”

“Yes.” Dean nods, letting out a shuddering breath. “Until only my father and I remained.”

Castiel’s eyes burn, and he swipes the back of his hand across his face. “Is it wrong of me, to hate someone I barely know?”

Dean shakes his head slowly, the light of understanding in his eyes. “No. Sometimes, I hate him too.” His voice drops to a whisper. “But at others, I remember that I loved him once, and that he loved me.”

Sighing, Castiel lies back down and curls against Dean’s chest. Reaching out, he lays a gentle hand over Dean’s heart, feeling the way its pace picks up at the touch. There is so much pain buried here, beneath hard muscle and soft skin, and he hopes that in speaking of it, they have drawn it like poison from a wound. 

A comfortable quiet falls between them, and Castiel replays Dean’s tale in his mind. He had known, distantly, that this homecoming was difficult for Sam, but now that he has heard this story, his heart aches for him as much as it does for Dean. Sam did not wish to return here, he knows, and yet he did, for Castiel’s sake. They have not spent a great deal of time together since their arrival, and Castiel feels suddenly guilty for it, for not checking to see how he is coping with their situation. 

It has not been easy on any of them, and he can only hope it will be worth it in the end. 

He feels the barest brush of lips atop his hair. “Goodnight, Emmanuel,” Dean whispers.

His eyes are already slipping closed as he replies, “Goodnight, Dean.”

An insistent knocking rouses Castiel from his slumber. He stirs in Dean’s arms, flushing faintly as he realizes how closely entwined they became over the course of the night. Dean is instantly alert, gently disentangling himself and swinging out of the bed.

Rowena stands on the other side of the door, and her mouth drops open in surprise as she takes in Castiel hurrying to join Dean. She arches one eyebrow, but all she says is, “We have urgent matters to discuss.”

Castiel nods, picking his robe up off the floor and sliding it over his shoulders. “Where is Sam?” he asks as Rowena leads them to the stairs.

“The library, where else?” She gives a fond shake of her head, then casts a significant look in Dean’s direction. “Emmanuel. What we have to say--”

“Dean ought to hear,” Castiel says firmly. After the previous night, after all that Dean had shared so freely, it would be unforgivable of Castiel to exclude him now. He has long wanted to take Dean into their confidence, and he is certain now is the time. 

He lowers his voice and bends down to whisper into Rowena’s ear, “Most of it, at least. Why we are here, but not who-- or what-- I am.”

That is one secret he must keep. If he dares even speak it out loud, he fears the castle will remember, will recognize him and call down the darkness upon him. The king has his suspicions, but if he were certain, he would have already acted. They have precious little time to act before he grows confident enough to move against them, and Castiel will not risk that advantage.

Rowena nods almost imperceptibly, and Dean’s hand slides into Castiel’s as they enter the library. Sam looks up at their entrance, eyes sharp as he glances at Dean and Castiel’s joined hands. Castiel shrugs, and Dean looks somewhat abashed, but a soft smile creeps over Sam’s face, and he gives them a small nod of what Castiel interprets as approval.

Sam waits until they have all seated themselves at the table before he begins. “We found it late last night,” he explains. “An obscure reference, in a book so old it nearly crumbled under our touch.” He gently pushes an ancient volume across the table, but Castiel does not reach for it. 

“It speaks of an emptiness of the soul, so great and powerful it can be made to take on physical form,” Rowena continues. “A last, desperate measure, prompted by strong emotion.” She glances between Sam and Dean, her lips tightening. “An emotion such as grief.”

Castiel sits back, clutching tightly to the edge of the table. “He brought the darkness,” he says, the king’s words from the night before echoing in his ears. “He told me, and I did not understand.”

“What darkness?” Dean looks around the table, his confusion clear. “What do you mean?”

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it again. Shaking his head, he looks at Castiel, deferring to his judgment on the matter.

Castiel closes his eyes as the pieces begin to fall into place. “We came here seeking angels,” he says. His words fall heavily in the silent room. “We heard a rumour that King John was known to hate them with unmatched intensity, and so we followed that rumour here.”

He can see in Dean’s eyes that he wants to ask why, but Castiel continues before he can do so. “On the way, we encountered a strange presence. A vast, yawning darkness, that threatened to consume all in its path.” He sees Sam frown at the distortion of the truth, the careful skirting around the fact that it was only Castiel the darkness sought to consume, but fortunately, he does not correct him. 

Something flickers across Dean’s face, something that looks almost like fear. “I thought it was a dream,” he says, so quiet Castiel can barely hear him. “I remember the first time I saw it, looking out my window. I thought it was a nightmare that I had, the way it would come back unexpectedly.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No. It is real, and it is the enemy we are here to defeat.”

He turns to Sam and Rowena. “We need to find it. We must move against it, before it moves against us.”

“I still don’t understand,” Dean interrupts. He drums his fingers impatiently against the table. “What is it you think this darkness has done? Killed all the angels?”

“Not exactly,” Sam replies. He gives Castiel a sidelong look as he explains. “We believe it has...absorbed them into itself, so to speak. If it is a product of Father’s grief, and of his hatred of angels, we believe it has somehow been used to hunt them down.”

“To what end?” Dean asks with a frown. “To what purpose? Revenge?”

“Something like that.” Rowena taps one long finger against the book in front of her. “It has no will of its own. It is a product of the one who summons it, and so it is shaped by their will, by their emotions.”

“Father always blamed Mother’s death on the angels,” Dean says, gaze sliding away and out towards the windows. “He thought that they should have protected her, since that was what she always told us.”

“Angels are watching over you,” Castiel quotes softly. 

Dean’s face goes pale. “Say that again,” he whispers.

Sam frowns at him. “Angels are watching over you,” he echoes. “It’s what Mother always used to say, don’t you remember?”

“Of course I remember.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, eyes wild. “I don’t pretend to understand any of this, but-- if you are saying this darkness is a product of Father’s grief, his rage and his betrayal, what would be the ultimate punishment for what he considers to be the angels’ greatest failure? Their failure to do as Mother always claimed, to watch over us?”

Something cold settles in the pit of Castiel’s stomach.

“To have no choice but to watch over us,” Dean finishes. He meets Castiel’s eyes as he says it, as though hoping he will be contradicted, but Castiel knows in his heart that Dean is correct.

“The tower,” Sam and Rowena say in unison. Sam’s lips twitch in a small smile before he recovers himself with an awkward cough. “The tower,” he says again. “I don’t know how, but--”

Castiel nods. He has been drawn there ever since their arrival, and now he understands why. The king’s words from their first conversation on the ramparts come back to him, startling in their new clarity. “He told me it was the only thing that made him happy, what he saw there.”

“Seeing the angels punished, held captive by his grief, would make the bastard happy,” Sam says tightly. He looks at Dean, shaking his head. “And you never knew?”

“I had other things on my mind,” Dean replies just as tightly. He folds his arms across his chest. “You weren’t here, Sam. Don’t you dare try to blame me for this, not when you walked away first.”

“I’m not blaming anyone--” Sam says hotly, but he stops as Rowena lays a firm hand on his shoulder.

“This isn’t helping, boys,” she says. “We need a plan, and quickly.”

Sam and Dean subside, though there is a new tension in the air, thick and weighty. Sam purses his lips and stares out towards the window, while Dean drums his fingers against the surface of the table, impatient. 

“He’s always there.” Dean casts a dark look upwards. “How can we investigate anything when he’s there?”

Castiel shrugs, dispirited. “I already tried,” he confesses. “Last night. I waited until I heard him descend, then climbed up myself. But he came back.”

He sees Dean’s frown, then the moment he understands, the moment he puts together the sequence of events that led to Castiel seeking comfort in his arms. Something softens in his eyes and he swallows roughly. “He knows, then. He knows we are pulling at the threads of this.”

“Yes.” The way Dean includes himself so easily in their alliance brings a smile to Castiel’s face despite the severity of the situation. “I do not believe he will graciously agree to let the angels go free.”

Sam lets out an inelegant snort. “Indeed.”

Rowena sighs and waves a dismissive hand in the air. “A simple sleeping draught will solve that,” she says. “He eats after we all are abed, yes? So we pour it into the leftovers, and once it takes effect, we will have several uninterrupted hours with which to investigate.”

“That is truly devious.” A slow grin spreads across Sam’s face, and he inclines his head respectfully in Rowena’s direction. “I can speak to the efficacy of those sleeping draughts of yours, considering how we met.”

A pleased smirk hovers around Rowena’s lips, and in Sam’s eyes, Castiel reads only admiration. In his heart, he is glad for them, but they have other, more pressing issues to contend with. “Yes,” Castiel says mildly. “I was there too.”

Dean presses his lips together, holding back laughter, as Sam and Rowena both flush. “Tonight, then?” he asks.

Castiel looks out the window, the sky obscured by gathering clouds. “Yes,” he says. “Tonight.”

He can taste the approaching storm on the air. The timing is fortuitous, a blessing from the universe. Sam and Rowena have already begun a discussion of the best way to mask the taste of the sleeping draught, bickering playfully back and forth. 

Castiel rises from his seat and crosses to the window. A moment later, he senses Dean’s presence behind him. “When all this is done,” Dean says, “will you tell me why?”

Turning, Castiel meets his eyes. There is no rebuke in Dean’s face, only resignation. As though he expects the answer to be no, and yet asked regardless.

It is to their shared surprise, then, that Castiel says, “Yes.”


	9. Chapter 9

The most difficult part is pretending, for the rest of the day, that everything is normal.

Sam and Rowena remain in the library, arguing over the exact composition of the sleeping draught. Castiel listens for a few minutes, marvelling at the changes that have come over Sam since their arrival. He holds himself with more confidence, speaks with more conviction. 

Dean watches them as well, a wistful smile playing about his lips. “He’s grown up,” he says, quiet enough to not be overheard. “And I missed so much of it.”

“There is still time,” Castiel tells him. “You are both here now. When this is done, there will be time.”

Dean does not reply, but some of the tightness around his eyes eases, and Castiel considers that success enough. 

He drifts away after that, back to his own chambers. Resting his hands on the wide window ledge, he looks out over the land, wondering how long it has been since the last of his kind was brought here. How long he sat in his forest, ignorant, and how long he might have sat there had he not heard that fateful whisper. 

A shiver runs through his body at the thought of what awaits him at the top of the tower tonight. That terrible emptiness, calling to him with such urgency. It ignored him, once Sam turned him human, but if it realizes their intent, if it perceives them as a threat--

He is human, now. And therefore vulnerable.

But he is so close to seeing this done. He must not falter now.

Movement in the courtyard draws his gaze, a familiar golden-brown head moving in the direction of the stables. Castiel’s hands clench on the window ledge as Dean crosses the open space, then disappears from sight. A few minutes later, Dianora’s graceful form bounds through the gate, and Castiel watches as they fade into the distance.

He wants to follow after them, wants the comfort and shelter of that willow tree by the river’s bend. The warmth of Dean’s body beside his, on this most difficult of days. It is a risk, though, and one Castiel is unwilling to take. The king knows. He knows of the connection that has developed between Dean and Castiel, and he knows Castiel is picking at the threads that hold this tapestry of quiet sorrow together. Should he decide Dean is a valuable means of ensuring Castiel’s cooperation--

No. He cannot risk it. Castiel exhales slowly, gaze drawn back up towards the clouds, and sees the first drop of rain fall from the sky.

Dinner that night is quiet, the weight of anticipation heavy in the air. Dean has prepared a rich, fragrant stew, but Castiel finds he has little appetite. Sam encourages him to eat, and behind his worried eyes Castiel reads the unspoken words-- he will need his strength this night. So he lifts his spoon to his mouth, repeating the action until his bowl is empty, and then pushes it away.

“Is everything ready?” he asks Rowena, who sips placidly at her wine as though poisoning an unstable monarch is an everyday occurrence for her. Perhaps, Castiel considers, it is. 

“Yes.” She raises her glass in a salute. “I suggest we retire early, though not so early as to arouse suspicion. The draught will be in the remainder of the stew, and it will have the king slumbering peacefully across this very table while you do what needs be done.”

“What if he doesn’t eat?” Dean folds his arms across his chest, eyes narrowed. “What if he suspects something is wrong?”

Sam and Rowena exchange weighted glances, and Sam’s voice is careful when he replies. “We will guard the last room before the top of the tower, between the stairs and the ladder. If he should attempt to pass us--”

Castiel watches, heart heavy, as Dean processes Sam’s words. His mouth opens as though to protest, and then he sighs. “And where will I be, while all of this is happening?”

“In your rooms. Safe.” Castiel speaks before any of the others have a chance, and is met with raised eyebrows from all of them.

“Absolutely not.” Dean rises from the table, scowling. “You expect me to sit behind a closed door with several flights of stairs between us and wait for it all to be over?”

Biting his lip, Castiel stands and crosses the room towards him while Sam and Rowena politely look away. “I know it will be difficult for you,” he says softly. “But I must see this done. And if I am worried about you--”

“I can take care of myself,” Dean insists, hand lingering at the empty spot on his belt where a sword might normally hang. 

“No,” Castiel says softly. “Not against this.”

He can see the confusion in Dean’s eyes, but also the hurt behind it. Slowly, Castiel reaches for his hand, watching as Dean’s lips part on a sharply indrawn breath. “Please,” he murmurs. “Give me this. Give me the comfort of knowing you are not in danger.”

Dean shakes his head wearily. “Do I not deserve the same comfort?” he asks, and Castiel has no reply to offer.

From behind them, Rowena delicately clears her throat. “Emmanuel is right,” she says. “It is for the best if you remain uninvolved, Prince Dean.”

“Sam?” Dean asks, whirling to face his brother. “Sam, please--”

Whatever he reads in Sam’s expression must be answer enough. Dean casts one look over his shoulder at Castiel, frustration and concern warring for precedence, then turns on his heel and leaves the room.

“Well.” Rowena shakes her head briskly. “You two will sort this mess out afterwards, I’m sure. Now.” She makes a shooing gesture at Castiel, already busy gathering their dirty dishes. “We will take these back to the kitchen and see to what must be done. Half an hour after you hear the king descend towards the kitchen, meet us on the stairs.”

There is only one thing left to be said. Castiel clears his throat and looks at each of them in turn. “Thank you,” he says. “Both of you. I do not believe I would have made it this far without your assistance.” He takes a deep breath, spreading his hands before himself. “If you wish to turn back, there is no shame in doing so, and I will not fault you for it.”

Rowena lets out a derisive snort. “Turn back? Hardly.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder, shaking her head at Castiel. “You said it yourself, Emmanuel. I was not freed from my tower for mundane tasks. I am exactly where I am meant to be.”

Sam has been silent, a pensive look on his face, but it clears at Rowena’s last words. He crosses the room and lays a gentle hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “As am I,” he says softly. “I ought to be thanking you, for bringing me home.”

Castiel nods, chest tight, and leaves the dining room. He climbs the stairs to his borrowed chambers, checking his instinct to pause at the level of Dean’s rooms and go to him. If all goes to plan, there will be time, afterwards. 

If not--

He cannot allow himself to entertain the possibility.

Castiel is sitting motionless on his bed, fully dressed, listening to the steady fall of the rain outside the window, when he hears a new sound: the slight whisper of cloth, the thump of a boot heel against the stone stairs.

The king is descending from his tower, and soon, Castiel will take his place.

He watches the hands on the clock, and when half an hour has passed, he rises calmly from the bed and opens the chamber door. He pauses, listening intently, and when only silence meets his ears, he exits. 

Sam and Rowena are waiting on the next level, both in dark robes. They nod gravely at him, and begin to climb.

Lightning flashes through the windows as they wind their way up the stairs. The rain splatters against the glass, and thunder rolls menacingly in the distance. Castiel’s heart pounds in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his body. However this is to end, it will end tonight. 

At the top of the stairs, he turns to Sam and Rowena. “Do not follow me,” he says. “I must do this part alone.”

He can see the desire to protest in their eyes, particularly Sam’s, but eventually they both nod. “We will await you here,” Rowena replies. “Go with my blessings, Emmanuel.”

If ever there was a time for honesty, this would be it. “My name is Castiel,” he says. “And I am honoured to have known you. Both of you.”

Sam flinches visibly as Castiel places his foot on the first rung of the ladder. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, inhaling deeply, and then continues.

The wind hits him with the force of a blow, and Castiel staggers under its insistence. Wiping rain from his face, he squints upwards into the sky, where the occasional flash of lightning illuminates the top of the tower around him. It looks exactly the same as it has the two previous times Castiel has stood here, except--

Off to his left, something moves.

Castiel crosses to the ramparts and looks up. The sky is dark, but there is one patch that is darker than the rest, moving like a flock of crows against the storm. The darkness swirls apart and solidifies again as it approaches, and Castiel’s heart quails.

But he stands straight and true, facing down the emptiness that looms before him.

It stops in the air just above him, roiling like the coils of a great serpent. From deep within the mass of shadows, a terrible voice emerges. “Little mortal,” it greets him. “Why have you come?”

“I have come for the angels,” Castiel replies. Rain drips steadily from his hair into his face, but he ignores it. “Tell me what you have done with them.”

“The angels?” The voice sharpens, and the shadows cease their movements. Something solid begins to form from the mass, a human figure but terribly distorted. “What do you care about the angels?”

Though no eyes are visible in the blankness of its face, Castiel feels himself laid bare. He raises his chin and stares back, and the darkness recoils.

“Angel,” it hisses. “And yet not. What are you? Why have you come?”

There is only truth to be offered, and so that is what Castiel gives it.

“I am Castiel. I am the last angel, and I would know why that has come to pass.”

The darkness laughs, dissolving its form. Now, in the stretch of shadow before him, Castiel sees the familiar flash and twinkle of many-coloured lights, darting back and forth. He cries out, but the sound is lost in the crash of thunder.

“They are within me,” the darkness announces. “I swept across the land, searching for them, and one by one they succumbed to my lures. Now, they watch over this castle, and all those within it, and so too will you.”

“Never.” Castiel shakes his head, his wet hair whipping across his face. “You could not take me before. You will not do so now.”

“No?” The darkness swirls again, the vague outline of a human body taking shape. But from its back spring enormous, ragged wings, the bright lights of the captive angels flickering along their edges. “You have been caught before, little angel-who-is-no-angel. You can be caught again.”

Castiel flinches, once again feeling the cold iron bars of his cage against his palms. He clenches his hands tightly and grits his teeth, willing away the memories of his helplessness, his shame and his rage. 

“You think yourself special, for being the last.” The voice is lower now, almost soothing. Despite himself, Castiel takes a step forward, leaning towards it. “But you are not. You are weak. I did not find you because you never left your forest, because you never cared to visit your kin or to appear to humans. You hardly deserved the name of angel, and so you were spared. But in your arrogance, in your pride, you came right to my doorstep, and in doing so, brought about your own doom.”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head, but weakly. The wind chills him, and he wraps his arms around his body, shivering. “You are wrong.”

“You came here for the angels, you said,” the darkness says slyly. “They are within me. Join them, and you will never be alone again. All will be as it was meant to be.”

Castiel closes his eyes. He can almost hear them, all his brothers and sisters. Their unique voices raised together in song, in invitation. If he cannot save them, at least he can be with them. 

“No!”

The shout tears through the night, and Castiel opens his eyes, hands braced on the ramparts. Through the driving rain, he can make out Dean’s blurry figure emerging from the trapdoor, lightning flashing off the blade in his hand.

“You will not take him,” Dean says, raising the sword. His eyes are bright with determination, not a trace of fear in his voice. “I will not allow it.”

Again, that terrible laughter. “Oh, little prince,” the darkness croons. “How I have waited to meet you. Telling yourself I was naught but a bad dream, ignoring the reality of your situation. Ignoring the way everyone you ever cared about left you here to rot. I pitied you, once. But now--”

His words are cut off as Dean strikes out with his blade. The shadow shows no sign of pain, only dissolving and reforming around the place where the sword separated it. Castiel sees Dean’s eyes widen, sees him glance across the ramparts. Their eyes meet, and through the haze of the rain, Castiel can see Dean’s lips move but cannot determine the words they shape. 

Abandoning his sword, Dean leaps onto the ramparts, arms outstretched. Castiel lunges forward, his fear for himself forgotten in face of Dean’s precarious position, but he is too slow. Dean tears at the darkness with his bare hands, wisps of black smoke coming apart but stitching themselves back together just as quickly.

The darkness lets loose a terrible hissing noise and stretches out a shadowy arm. It bats Dean aside in a casual, careless gesture. He stumbles, bracing himself against the ramparts, and the darkness moves again.

A jagged burst of lightning splits the sky, and Dean falls.

Castiel screams, but it is too late. The darkness stretches, filling the sky, and spreads its arms wide in a welcoming embrace.

“There is nothing left for you here, Castiel,” it says. “Come to me, and I will grant you peace.”

Castiel takes one step forward. He glances towards the edge of the tower, to where Dean fell. He thinks he sees a flash of movement below, but he dares not look down, unable to bear the thought of his broken body sprawled in the courtyard.

Drawing in a deep breath, he looks into the emptiness before him and says, “No.”

He will not allow the pain to consume him. He will not succumb to his grief, as did the king. He will fight, honouring Dean’s memory the only way he can. He will fight to his very last human breath.

Though he does not know how.

“Castiel!”

Sam’s head and shoulders emerge through the trapdoor, surrounded by a warm golden glow. Some sort of protection, Castiel guesses, a guard against the darkness. “Do you trust me?” Sam shouts, his words nearly lost in the sounds of the storm.

The last time Castiel trusted Sam, he was bound in this human form. But they have both changed since then, in ways Castiel cannot even begin to understand. There is little left for him to lose.

“I do,” he responds.

Sam speaks a word, louder than the clap of the thunder, and Castiel is unmade.

His human body dissolves in an instant, and he takes to the air, blue-white and glowing. He dives straight into the centre of the darkness, but at such a speed that he passes through it, rather than being consumed by it. Again, and again, he worries at its edges, shadows forming and reforming around the holes left by his passage.

The darkness hisses and claws at him, but Castiel is too quick. He darts around it, drawing it away from the tower and higher into the sky. Dean may be lost to him, but there are still others within these walls he must protect.

He is tired, but so is the darkness. It takes longer to repair itself after every gash Castiel creates in its mass, twisting and grabbing at him as he passes through it. He can sense the other angels within it, joining him in his struggle, but they are weakened from the imprisonment. Still, he draws resolve from their presence, and he fights on.

He takes aim at the centre of the shadow’s chest, feeling the cold of it pull at him as he passes through. It pulls him downwards, and that is when the darkness strikes.

Faster than the lightning that still flashes from the sky, its enormous hand closes over Castiel, trapping him in its grasp. Castiel struggles, but the shadow has him caught fast, and it laughs as it raises him towards its smooth, blank face.

“Farewell, Castiel,” it says. “Take comfort in the fact that you met your end as an angel once more, even if you are the last.”

Its words sink over Castiel, but it is not acceptance that follows in their wake. 

He is the last angel, but he is not only that. He is an angel who has been human, and who will always remember what that means. How the green grass feels beneath his fingertips, how the heady wine goes straight to his head, how his dreams can be both troubled and peaceful.

How it feels to touch someone you care for, and to know that they care for you as well.

It is not a weakness, as he always assumed. It is a great strength, humanity, and in this darkest of hours, Castiel calls upon it for aid.

Images flash through his mind as he begins to glow brighter and brighter. Sam unlocking the door to his cage, walking away from that terrible place together. Rowena untying their bonds and leading them away through the dark forest. The look on her face as Sam carried her across the ford, and the way they look at one another now. 

The first time he saw Dean, and the last.

A piercing shriek spills from the darkness’ throat as Castiel expands in its grasp. He is growing larger by the second, burning pure white with the heat of his resolve. 

Against the power of an angel who knows what it is to love, there can be no victory for the darkness. With one last wail, it dissolves, washed away in the cleansing downpour of the storm.

As it dissolves, the angels bound within it are released into the sky. Their jubilant dance lights up the night, and they call out their gratitude and their respect as they streak through the clouds. One, a familiar mixture of yellow and green, hovers nearby as Castiel slowly sinks back to his normal size. Its light pulses with what Castiel knows to be sympathy, and he circles around Balthazar in relief before flying back to the tower.

Sam and Rowena are huddled together, her body impossibly small in the shelter of his arms. Their faces turn upwards, mingled awe and grief in their eyes, as he descends and re-shapes himself into a human form.

“Dean?” Sam ventures, and Castiel crumbles.

Distantly, he hears Sam’s wordless cry as he sinks to the floor beside him. Rowena lays a soft hand on each of their backs, murmuring meaningless words of comfort. “I should not have let him pass,” Sam mutters under his breath. “I should have stopped him.”

Castiel draws in a shuddering breath and shakes his head. “It is not your fault,” he says. Once, he might have said the exact opposite. “It is not your fault.”

Eventually, their tears halt, and so too does the rain. Rowena helps them both to their feet, and with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts, they climb down from the tower and out of the castle.

In the courtyard, two figures lie on the rain-soaked earth.

Sam freezes, then breaks into a run. Rowena calls after him, but he is already crouching by the nearest of the two bodies, turning it over with gentle hands.

“The king,” Rowena whispers, eyes wide. “But how--”

Castiel stares down at King John, so small and still in death. He remembers the flash of movement he saw from the top of the tower, after Dean had already fallen. The king must have somehow avoided the effects of Rowena’s sleeping draught. Castiel wonders if he saw Dean fall, if he saw what ruin he had wrought before death took him.  
“His life force was tied to the darkness long ago.” A new voice, but one that is nevertheless faintly familiar, echoes across the quiet space. “He poured all his grief, all his rage, all his will to live into it and its mission. When it was destroyed, so too was he.”

A figure emerges from the shadows along the walls, and Castiel takes a step back. “You,” he says.

The reaper smiles. “My name is Billie,” she says. “I wondered if we would meet again, little angel. I did not think it would be as part of my usual duties.”

Castiel swallows roughly, eyes drawn reluctantly to Dean’s crumpled body. He takes a step in that direction, and then another, until he is close enough to crouch down at his side.

Dean’s face is peaceful, his clothes dark with rainwater. Castiel fights down the cry of helpless rage that threatens to spill from his lips and smooths a trembling hand across Dean’s forehead, chasing away the raindrops collected there. 

This is not how it was meant to end. If there is to be no afterwards for them, it ought to have been because he was gone from this world, not Dean. Never Dean.

Behind him, he hears Billie speaking softly to Sam. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees Sam’s tight nod, the storm of emotions behind his eyes as Billie waves her hand and a white mist spills from the king’s parted lips. She gathers it tenderly in her hands and presses them to her chest, smiling softly. “He is at peace,” she says. 

And then she turns to Dean.

Her eyes meet Castiel’s, and something in them changes. She tilts her head to the side, considering, and nods slowly, as though something she once suspected has now been confirmed. 

“You have changed,” she says.

“Yes,” Castiel replies.

She takes a step closer, and Castiel tenses, placing himself protectively in front of Dean’s body. “Easy,” she says, raising her hands. “You set me free, and I do not like being in anyone’s debt.”

Cupping her hands together, she blows lightly on them. A golden mist passes from her mouth and flows towards Dean’s chest. Castiel watches, holding his breath, as the mist settles over Dean’s heart and sinks slowly through the sodden fabric of his shirt. 

There is a terrible pause, and then his eyes open.

Castiel’s heart turns over in his chest, and he has Dean wrapped tightly in his arms in the blink of an eye. Dean trembles beneath him, pushing his face into the crook of Castiel’s shoulder. “I dreamed that I fell,” he whispers, drawing back to look into Castiel’s face. “I was lost in the dark, and I could not see you.”

“I am here,” Castiel tells him. He cups Dean’s face in one hand, marveling at the softness of his skin, the light of life behind his eyes. “I will not leave you.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Dean relaxes into his embrace.

Over his shoulder, Castiel meets the reaper’s eyes. “Thank you,” he tells her.

Billie inclines her head gravely, though her eyes are amused. “For your sake, I hope we do not meet again. Be well, angel.”

“And you.” Castiel gives her a nod of farewell, and as quickly as she appeared, she is gone. 

Sam approaches them, face raw with relief, and Castiel pulls away to give the brothers their space. They both have tears streaming down their faces as Sam helps Dean to his feet and they look down on their father’s body, so unthreatening now in death.

“Why was he here?” Dean asks after a long pause. “How did he know that I--”

Rowena clasps her arms tightly around her middle, a distant sorrow in her eyes. “Perhaps, in the end, he remembered that he loved you.” Her eyes slide to Sam, and she offers a small shrug. “Both of you.”

It is certainly the kindest possibility. Castiel can see both Sam and Dean struggling to accept it, to reconcile that thought with their memories of their father. Eventually, Sam sighs. “We will bury him beside Mother,” he says quietly. 

Then he turns to Dean, sinking into a half-bow. “You are the king now, Dean.”

Dean stares at him, as though the question of inheritance has never occurred to him. “Is there anything to be king of?” he asks. “It is only us in the castle, and frankly, I am sick of the gloom of this place.”

“Then make it beautiful again.” Castiel crosses to stand beside him, looking down on King John’s motionless body. “Bring the life back to this place, send word to those friends of yours who left when his darkness threatened to overtake them. Rebuild.”

Frowning, Dean looks at each of them in turn. “Do you truly think it possible? To escape the shadow that has hung over us for so long?”

Castiel looks up into the sky. A few clouds remain, but the rain and thunder have long since ceased. A bright light darts across his field of vision, and he smiles.

“Yes,” he says. “On this, of all days, I believe anything is possible.”


	10. Chapter 10

As the sun rises, casting its warm glow over the courtyard, Castiel decides.

He turns to Dean and places a soft hand on his elbow. “Might we have a word?” He glances over at Sam and Rowena, who are engaged in their own conversation. “Privately?”

Courteous as ever, Dean nods and allows himself to be led aside. “You promised you would tell me why,” he says, quiet.

“I did.” Castiel takes a deep breath, and lets his human form dissolve.

Dean’s mouth parts on a soft gasp as Castiel takes to the air, flickering through the shadows cast by the high walls. He watches, eyes wide with wonder, as Castiel whirls through the air, dancing playfully around his head before resuming the shape Dean is familiar with.

“You are--” Dean cannot seem to form the word, so Castiel does it for him.

“An angel,” he says softly. “My true name is Castiel. Sam cast an enchantment in an effort to protect me from the shadow, but it trapped me in a human form.”

“Castiel,” Dean repeats. A shiver runs through Castiel’s body at the sound of it on Dean’s lips. “That is why you came here seeking other angels.”

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “I followed a whisper, a rumour that I was the last. And it led me here.” He pauses, heart pounding wildly in his chest. “To you.”

Dean lets out a soft, surprised sound. He licks his lips, eyes locked onto Castiel’s with a strange light burning behind them. “And now that you have succeeded,” he says, “now that you have freed your kin and broken Sam’s enchantment…” He trails off, hands flexing at his sides.

Reaching out, Castiel wraps one hand around Dean’s wrist and pulls him forward. Dean comes easily, his hand already turning to fit neatly into Castiel’s grasp.

“I would like to know you without the shadows of this place upon you,” Castiel whispers. “To leave the sorrow within these walls, and to run free beside you, at least for a time.”

Dean closes his eyes, tightening his grip. “I want that too,” he says. “Gods, how I want it. But I still have a duty to my kingdom, to my people, no matter how scattered they are. I am King, now--”

“What if you did not have to be?”

Both Dean and Castiel turn, surprised, at the sound of Sam’s voice. He shrugs, only displaying slight remorse at having intruded on their conversation. “We have a great deal of work to do,” he continues, “if we are to make our home into some semblance of what it once was. And we both have our reasons for needing some distance from it, as well.” He glances at Rowena, who gives him an approving nod. “I know it is unusual, but Dean-- what if we ruled together? Shared the responsibility, so that it might not overwhelm us?”

He glances back over at the body of the king, now respectfully covered with his cloak. “I believe I may find some measure of peace here now, as I have been away for so long. But you have been here, drowning in its grief and its solitude, and you deserve the chance to escape it, at least for a time.”

Dean looks around the courtyard, then up towards the tower. Something flickers behind his eyes, and Castiel knows he is remembering his fall. He shudders, but squares his shoulders, eyes clearing. “You always were the clever one,” he says, smiling. “It is a good plan.”

He turns back to Castiel, his smile fading. “Can we spare a few more days? There are matters that need attending to”-- his eyes dart back towards his father’s body--”before I leave all responsibility in Sam’s outrageously large hands.”

Sam makes a noise of protest, lost in Rowena’s laughter. “Yes,” Castiel answers. “There are things I must see to as well.” He watches fondly as Rowena places a dainty hand against Sam’s, comparing its size, and smiles. “And when we return here, I suspect we will find it much changed.”

They bury the king later that morning, Castiel and Rowena remaining behind at the castle while the brothers ride out together. “You were right,” Castiel says to her as they stand in the hall after saying their farewells.

“I generally am,” she replies. “Which instance are you referring to?”

He laughs, the sound ringing in the lofty hall. “When you said that love was a key, not a cage.”

“Ah, yes.” Rowena gives him a sidelong glance, but beneath the amusement, there is something that resembles pride. “It is a difficult lesson to learn. And part of me still sorrows that you had to learn it this way. But if this is the result”-- she shrugs gracefully-- “then I cannot be entirely sorry for it.”

“Nor can I,” Castiel says. He turns to face her, noting the slight flush that has stained her fair cheeks. “And with my newfound wisdom, I believe I see a change in you, as well.”

She inclines her head in acknowledgment, a smile playing about her lips. “There are burdens I will always carry,” she says quietly. “But to have someone to share them with, and to bear theirs in return--”

“I know.” They exchange a look of shared understanding. “It is more wondrous than angels, more powerful than magic, is it not?”

“It is,” she agrees. “Let us remember that.”

"Is it enough, though?" Castiel asks. "Enough to make you stay." 

She takes a moment to answer, a slight frown creasing her forehead, but eventually nods. "It might not be, on its own," she admits, "but I believe I have a purpose here outside of Samuel."

"Oh?"

A small smile appears on her lips. "Frustrating as it proved for both of us on occasion, guiding his training has been a satisfying experience. I was fortunate enough to have a teacher to help me with my gifts, but not all those born with them are so lucky." She waves a hand at the walls around them. "This place could truly be something unique, a place of learning for those with magical abilities. The library has proven particularly effective, and think of how much we could accomplish, were we not scattered throughout the lands."

Castiel can picture it perfectly: the chambers filled with eager students, Sam and Rowena presiding over lessons, Dean dragging them outdoors for fresh air and sparring practice when they had spent too long crouched over books. "I hope to witness this one day," he says. "And the thought of magic users being well-trained does bring me a very specific sort of comfort, based on my past experiences."

With a laugh, Rowena retires to her chambers to sleep, but Castiel is not tired, despite the events of the past hours. He finds himself climbing the stairs and then the ladder, emerging into the bright morning sunlight at the top of the tower. 

He makes a slow circuit of the ramparts, admiring the view. The air is fresh after the night’s rain, and only a few solitary clouds mar the perfect blue brilliance of the sky. It is difficult to reconcile the scene before him with what happened the previous night, the storm and the darkness and that terrible moment when Dean fell from this very tower.

Castiel lets out a deep breath and rests his hands on the stone ledge, warmed by the sun. He was tested, and he prevailed. It is uncomfortable to admit, even to himself, but he knows he would not have done so without the time spent as a human, without the changes it forced in him. He would have been lost to the darkness, and angels would fade into mere stories to tell children before bed. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

He turns at the sound of Sam’s voice. “It is.”

Sam pulls himself through the trapdoor and joins him at the ramparts. His hair is pulled away from his face, his eyes rimmed in red. It cannot have been easy for him, laying his father to rest, despite their troubled history. Castiel swallows back meaningless words and places a comforting hand on his shoulder instead.

A wry smile twists Sam’s lips. “When I left here, I intended never to return. I was resentful of your insistence on doing so, at first, but I was so swept up in the adventure of it, of travelling with an angel.” He laughs, shaking his head. “An angel. And now I look at you, and I see--”

“A friend?” Castiel supplies.

Sam’s smile widens, becomes more genuine. “A friend,” he echoes. “Yes.”

They stand in comfortable silence, watching as a bird wheels through the sky, cawing noisily. “You have a powerful gift,” Castiel says eventually. “You can make this place a good one again.”

“I have not always used it wisely,” Sam replies, mouth tightening. “You would know that better than most.”

Castiel shrugs, spreading his hands wide before him. “Who can predict the path their life will take? Perhaps, as you once admitted, you freed me out of spite. But had you not, we would never have travelled together here and accomplished what we have.” He falls silent for a moment, remembering other choices, other forks in the road that led them here. “Had I not insisted you also free the reaper--”

Sam lets out a deep breath, nodding. “Dean might have been lost to us forever.” He scrubs a hand over his face, and when he turns back to Castiel, mischief dances in his hazel eyes. “Now that, I cannot have predicted. The two of you.”

“No.” Castiel smiles. “Nor could I.”

“We have missed so much,” Sam muses. “All of us. Circumstances brought us together, and dictated the shape of our days. There are so many lessons Rowena might still teach me, now that we are not frantically searching for a way to undo my foolish mistakes. There are so many questions I want to ask Dean, about the time we spent apart.” 

“We will have time,” Castiel replies, and for once, he knows it to be true.

They stand in comfortable silence for a few minutes longer, watching the clouds float lazily past in the sky. Eventually, Sam looks over, dimples showing in his cheeks. “Go,” he says. “I know you wish to.”

Castiel laughs, ducking his head. “Am I so obvious as that?”

“Only because I have become accustomed to your ways.” Sam shrugs, still smiling. “And because I know my brother, and if you do not go to him now, he will climb this tower in search of you again, and I would rather not be present for what follows.”

Heat rises in Castiel’s cheeks, and he clears his throat awkwardly as he turns to leave. Sam laughs, but there is no unkindness in it, and Castiel finds himself smiling as he climbs down the ladder and then down the stairs.

He finds Dean midway along his descent, just passing the chambers Castiel has been occupying. Without saying a word, Dean pauses, eyes searching Castiel’s face. Whatever he sees there must reassure him, because he offers a smile, though his eyes are still strained.

Castiel comes slowly down the last steps between them and reaches out to place a hand on his elbow. “How are you?” he asks. Only hours ago, Dean was cold and still, lying motionless under the falling rain. Castiel needs the reassurance of touch, to feel the solid warmth of Dean’s living body under his touch.

Judging by the way Dean leans forward, he needs much of the same.

“Overwhelmed,” Dean admits with a small laugh. “Can we--” He gestures over his shoulder at the chamber door behind them, and Castiel nods.

Dean is quiet as he looks around his room. He crosses to the side of the bed and picks up the portrait of his mother, gazing down at it with something unidentifiable on his face.

“She would not have wanted any of this,” he says quietly. 

Castiel does not know what it feels like, to lose a mother. He has no mother, no parents at all. He was brought into existence fully formed, but he does have his siblings, and he remembers the pain he felt at the thought of losing them. Swallowing roughly, he comes to stand beside Dean. “Will you tell me more about her, someday?”

Dean turns to look at him, a sad smile playing about his lips. “Someday,” he agrees. “But for now--” He shakes his head, putting the portrait down with gentle hands. “I should have known. That the shadow was more than just a dream.”

“You must not blame yourself,” Castiel says swiftly. “Even if you had known, had guessed at your father’s designs, what could you have done?”

Shrugging, Dean looks away. Castiel does not let him, moving to stand in front of him and tilting Dean’s chin up. “Is this also a human habit, this tendency to take all the blame upon your own shoulders?” he asks lightly.

A begrudging smile hovers around Dean’s lips. “All those comments suddenly make so much more sense in light of my new understanding of you.” He lets out a deep breath, some of the tension leaving the set of his shoulders. “And yes. I believe it is. Or perhaps it is just a habit of mine.”

“I will endeavour to cure you of it, then.” Castiel slides his hand up to rest it at the juncture of Dean’s neck and shoulder, fingers stroking gently over the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Dean shivers slightly, eyes wide as he looks at Castiel. “We have all made mistakes,” Castiel tells him. “Myself included. When I saw you fall from that tower--”

His words fail him, remembering. Dean makes a noise of distress and leans forward so that their foreheads touch, his breath warm against the side of Castiel’s face. “I’m here,” he murmurs. “I’m still here.”

Castiel inhales, letting the words wash over him. There is dirt beneath Dean’s fingernails, he can see, remnants of the earth he and Sam shifted while burying their father. In the face of endings, there are always new beginnings. 

He does not need to sleep, but he knows that Dean does. When he tugs him towards the bed, Dean goes willingly, eyes soft and fond as Castiel climbs in beside him and pulls the covers over them both. 

Dean’s eyes close quickly, and Castiel thinks he is already asleep when he says, “She was right, after all.”

“Who was?” Castiel mumbles, having drifted into a sort of semi-conscious state himself.

“My mother.” Dean turns onto his side, laying his head on Castiel’s chest. “Angels are watching over us. Or at least one is.”

Castiel’s heart swells in his chest, and he leans over to press a kiss to Dean’s hair. “I am,” he says softly. “And I will be. Forever.”

They ride out on a beautiful spring morning three days later. Sam and Rowena stand in the courtyard with them, hands entwined. Dean gives his brother a broad wink at the sight, and Sam colours faintly, while Rowena only looks smug.

“I will return,” Dean says, gripping Sam’s free hand. “And I will send word. This parting, it will not be like the one before.”

“Good.” Sam pulls him into a tight embrace. “Be well, Dean. We will be here when you are ready to return.”

Dean makes a low, graceful bow to Rowena and kisses her outstretched hand. Rolling her eyes, she taps his cheek fondly. “You look after that angel, there,” she says. “Trouble seems to follow him.”

Looking back at Castiel, Dean grins. It is an expression of such pure joy that Castiel’s heart gives an answering leap in his chest. “I look forward to it,” Dean says.

Castiel has already said his farewells, or at least the meaningful portions of them. He embraces both Sam and Rowena regardless, smiling gently at them. “Take care of each other,” he tells them. “And try not to burn this place down in some strange competition.”

“I make no promises,” Rowena says, arching one eyebrow. “If we do, rest assured that I will have Samuel rebuild it again.”

“Is it safe, leaving them alone here?” Castiel asks Dean, voice lowered, as they both hold back laughter.

“Go.” Sam shakes his head in amusement, waving them on their way. “Tell those you meet along the way that Kartovale has two new kings, and that a change will come across these lands.”

“We will.” With one last wave, Dean leaps onto Dianora’s back. Spots waits placidly behind, saddled, but Castiel ignores the horse. He smiles, inclining his head towards Sam and Rowena, and transforms.

As a burst of blue-white light, he streaks through the open gate, and into the world beyond. 

Dean lets out a whoop and clicks his heels against Dianora’s side. She springs into a run, and they race behind Castiel out over the plains, the castle disappearing rapidly behind them. The wind rushes past Castiel, and he pulses with wild joy, the freedom of flight so much more precious now than it has ever been before.

They crest a rise some distance away, and Castiel pauses, hovering in the sky as Dianora slows. Turning back, Dean stares at the castle still visible on the horizon.

Castiel waits, patient, as a complicated sequence of emotions flashes over Dean’s face. “You will see it again,” he says, knowing Dean will hear him.

“I will.” Dean nods once, turning to look up at him. “It will not be the same, and nor will I.” He lets out a deep breath, then runs an affectionate hand down Dianora’s horns. “I thought she would be the only being of myth and legend to enter my life,” he says, smiling up at Castiel. “And yet here you are as well.”

“She chose you for a reason,” Castiel replies. He draws nearer, circling playfully around Dean’s head. “As did I.”

Dean flushes a beautiful shade of rose and clears his throat noisily. “Well, then. I suppose I ought to make sure you don’t regret it.”


	11. Chapter 11

True to his word, he does not. The days that follow are some of the most marvelous of Castiel’s long life, as they make their leisurely way through Kartovale and beyond. At the river, Castiel transforms himself into a large silver fish and darts around Dianora’s hooves as she splashes across the ford. Dean laughs freely, a joking remark dying on his lips when Castiel emerges from the river human-shaped and naked, water running down his bare chest. Dean’s eyes fly wide before snapping quickly to Castiel’s face, and Castiel feels a thrill run through him at the new knowledge of Dean’s appreciation for his form.

It is an appreciation that goes both ways. Restored to his full potential, Castiel no longer has any need to sleep, but the bedrolls-- and the man within them-- are warm and soft and inviting, and he shifts into his human body and crawls in beside Dean from the first night onwards. Dean makes a small sound of surprise but is quick to wrap Castiel into his arms, curling his strong body around him. He snores lightly as Castiel lies awake, content to be held against the darkness of the night, and in the morning, they rest in each other’s arms, neither saying a word, until the sun has fully risen in the sky.

One night, nearly a week into their leisurely journey, Dean does not immediately close his eyes once they have lain down across from the flickering fire. “Why did you not tell me?” he asks, tucking his chin over Castiel’s shoulder. “That you were not human. Did you not trust me?”

Distantly, Castiel had been preparing for this moment, for this question. “I did not know you,” he answers. “And even once I did, I can admit, I feared your judgment.”

Dean is quiet for so long Castiel wonders if he has fallen asleep. “Because of my father,” he says eventually.

Castiel swallows around the lump of guilt in his throat and says, “Yes.”

A shudder racks Dean’s body, and Castiel turns in his arms, looking into his face. “I was wrong,” he says firmly. “I think I knew it, even then. I knew you were nothing like him, Dean, but I--” He pauses, needing to be certain of his words before speaking them. “I feared being known by you,” he says, quieter now. “Sam and Rowena recognized me for what I was, thanks to their gifts. I could not prevent that. But I was trapped in that body, and had lost so much of what I valued in myself. My abilities. The only thing it felt I had left under my control was who I allowed to know me, and I thought I was protecting myself by keeping you uninformed.”

He reaches out to trace the line of Dean’s cheekbone, highlighted by the glow of the fire. “But you saw me regardless,” he whispers.

Dean closes his eyes, his breath warm against Castiel’s palm. “How could I not?” he asks. “Even then, you were a bright light in the darkness of that place.”

“Strange,” Castiel replies, eyes moving slowly over the familiar, beautiful contours of Dean’s face. “I would say the same of you.”

Turning his head slightly, Dean presses a kiss to the centre of Castiel’s palm. Castiel’s breath catches in his throat, and he holds himself perfectly still, heart racing. But Dean only smiles softly at him and nuzzles into his chest, eyes slipping closed, and Castiel lies awake through the night, an unfamiliar longing coursing through his veins. 

Two days later, Castiel is riding Spots at Dianora’s side when he catches sight of a familiar building in the distance. Smiling, he looks over at Dean, who immediately raises an eyebrow at the expression on his face. “What?” he asks. “What is it?”

“Would you like to spend a night indoors for once?” Castiel points towards the inn, still smiling. “I know a decent place.”

“Are you tired of the rough ground?” Dean teases. “Too unyielding for you, after the comforts of my bed?”

Castiel bites down on his lip as he remembers that wide bed, the way it always felt slightly too large for him. What would it be like, to have Dean beside him in such a bed, with four walls around them and candles burning low all through the night?

The path of his thoughts must show on his face, because the mischievous light fades from Dean’s eyes, replaced by something else entirely. “Yes,” he says, voice low. “That would be...pleasant.”

“Pleasant,” Castiel repeats. “Yes.” He sneaks a sidelong glance at Dean, who is studiously looking away, and hides a satisfied smile in Spots’ mane. “Come along, then.”

The sun is just beginning to sink in the west as they clatter into the courtyard of the Red Lion. A familiar figure straightens up from the well, bucket swinging easily in one hand, and Castiel slides down from Spots’ back with a broad smile. 

“Emmanuel!” Donna greets him, grinning. “How wonderful to see you again.” Her gaze travels over to Dean, and her eyes widen. “You’ve brought a friend, I see.” 

“Something like that,” Castiel answers, and sees a flash of understanding pass over her face. 

“Well.” She nods in the direction of the inn, gesturing them forwards. “Come in, please. Jody will be delighted to see you, and I’ll have our best room prepared for you.”

“Thank you.” Dean leaps down from Dianora’s back and bows in Donna’s direction. “I’ll join you after I’ve seen to our mounts.”

He leads Spots and Dianora away towards the stables, and both Donna and Castiel watch appreciatively as he strides away. Donna lets out a low whistle, raising one eyebrow at Castiel. “Handsome as the sunrise, that one,” she comments. “And so polite. You have had adventures since we saw you last, Emmanuel.”

“I have,” Castiel agrees. He takes the bucket from her hands despite her protests and follows her into the inn. “It is good to be back, though.”

He recognizes some of the patrons gathered in the common room and lifts a hand in acknowledgment of their cheerful greetings. Once he has deposited the bucket in the kitchen, Donna sends him back to the entrance, where he finds Dean flashing his most charming grin in Jody’s direction.

“Ah,” she says, catching sight of him. “Emmanuel. It’s good to see you.”

“You as well.” Castiel moves to stand beside Dean, and watches as Jody’s face softens in understanding. “Donna mentioned she might have a room for us?”

“Of course.” Jody reaches under the counter and passes him a large bronze key. “The top floor. I trust you’ll be joining us for a meal, and perhaps a tale?”

Castiel takes the key from her with a smile. “You may rely on it.”

“A tale?” Dean asks as they climb up to their room.

“Yes.” Castiel unlocks the door and steps inside, laughing to himself as he takes in the room that covers the entirety of the top floor. A large window looks out onto the setting sun, and an enormous bed in the centre of the room is piled high with woven quilts and fluffy pillows. “I stayed one night here on my journey south, exchanging a story for my room and board. It was quite well-received.”

“I’m sure it was.” Dean drops their bags in the wardrobe and throws himself onto the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “They seem like good people, these friends of yours.”

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, to say they are not his friends, then closes it again. He does not feel he has done much to deserve that title in relation to them, but Donna and Jody certainly greeted him as an old friend. He ought not diminish the generosity of their spirit by claiming otherwise. 

“They are,” he says instead. “Come along.” He tugs at Dean’s boot, ignoring his groan of protest. “They also serve an excellent dinner.”

Sighing, Dean climbs to his feet and allows himself to be dragged back down to the dining room. 

They are midway through a truly delicious meal when Dean pauses, his tankard of ale halfway to his lips. Castiel tenses immediately, scanning the room for possible threats, but Dean rises slowly from his seat, something raw and yearning on his face. “Bobby?” he says, looking past Castiel.

Castiel turns sharply, just in time to watch as Dean throws himself into a familiar figure’s arms with a glad cry. Bobby’s grizzled face is soft with wonder as he holds Dean tightly to his chest, and Castiel thinks he even sees the glimmer of tears in his eyes. “Dean?” he asks, voice thick with emotion. “Dean, lad, what are you--”

“I never thought I would see you again.” Dean’s words are muffled by the way his face is pressed into Bobby’s shoulder, but Castiel can hear the gladness in them regardless. “Have you been here, all this time?”

Bobby pulls back and wipes a rough hand over his face, clearing his throat. “Most of it, yes. But you-- you’ve finally done it? Finally left your father?”

Castiel snaps to attention as Dean’s face falls. Bobby draws in a sharp breath and murmurs, “Ah. So it’s like that, then.”

To spare Dean the burden of having to explain, Castiel steps forward. “Hello, Bobby,” he says. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Emmanuel.” Bobby’s eyes narrow. “What is your role in all of this?”

“I find myself wondering the same thing.” Castiel turns to Dean with an inquisitive look. “You know each other, I gather.”

Dean smiles, though his eyes are still shadowed with grief. “I told you about our old retainer, the one who stayed longer this most. This is him.”

He can imagine it well. Under Bobby’s gruffness, his affection for Dean shines clearly. It must have hurt him terribly, leaving the castle. From what Dean has told him, Bobby was more of a father to Dean than the king was.

“You went south, then,” Bobby says, nodding. “All the way to the end of the road.” He looks between Dean and Castiel, a hint of a smile hidden behind his beard. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I did.” Castiel glances at Dean and smiles. “And more.”

“Ah.” Bobby purses his lips, gesturing them back to their table. “Now that, I think, is a tale worth telling.”

Most of the night is spent recounting Castiel’s journey, carefully edited to maintain his persona of a mere wandering storyteller. The other patrons wander over in pairs or in small groups, listening with wide eyes as Castiel describes the mighty rushing river, the high walls of the castle. They do not discuss the angels, nor the death of the king, but Castiel sees understanding in Bobby’s eyes and in the way his hand rests on Dean’s shoulder for much of the evening. 

Eventually, it is just the three of them and the flickering fire, Donna and Jody’s low voices filtering in from the kitchen beyond. Bobby drains the last of his ale and sets his tankard down with a thump. “Your brother,” he says suddenly. “He is happy?”

Dean’s smile is soft. “He is. Or he is on his way to becoming so.” He pauses, then grins. “However, there is a great deal of work to be done, repairing the castle and restoring it to its former glory. He could use someone at his side, someone he can trust--”

“Oh, very well,” Bobby grumbles, but his eyes are bright. “I expect the ladies of this establishment are getting tired of me anyway. Might be a good time to look for a new place to lay my grizzled head.”

“Nonsense,” Donna says cheerfully as she comes to collect their mugs. “You always have a place here, Bobby, but as your friend, I say you should go.” She rests her hand on Bobby’s shoulder and gives it an encouraging squeeze.

Bobby sighs, and Dean lets out a triumphant laugh. Under the table, his knee knocks against Castiel’s and then stays firmly pressed there, a line of heat that travels all through Castiel’s body. 

“I’m for my bed, then.” Bobby rises and claps Dean on the back, nodding cordially to Castiel. “It would appear I have a long journey ahead of me in the morning.”

Catching Dean’s eye, Castiel stands as well. “I’ll give you two a moment,” he says. He bows to Donna, who gives him a broad wink in return, and with another nod to Bobby, he slips away up the stairs.

He only drank one tankard of ale the entire evening, so he cannot ascribe the strange humming in his veins to the effects of alcohol. Castiel hangs his cloak in the wardrobe and goes to stand at the window, gazing out into the night sky. A light breeze ruffles his hair and he inhales deeply the scent of the flowers from the carefully-tended gardens below.

The door creaks behind him, but he does not turn. A moment later, Dean’s arms slide around his waist, pulling him back against his broad chest. Castiel sighs and tilts his head back to rest against Dean’s shoulder, eyes slipping closed. Dean’s hands are warm at his sides, one finger resting on a bare strip of skin between his shirt and trousers. Castiel shifts slightly and feels the quick intake of Dean’s breath, the reflexive tightening of his hands before they relax again.

Castiel turns in his arms, lifting his face up towards Dean’s. In the faint moonlight, the desire and apprehension are clear on his face. “It’s alright,” Castiel says softly. He places one hand over Dean’s heart, feeling the way it jumps at his touch. “I would like to kiss you, Dean. Very much.”

Dean lets out a slow breath, warm against Castiel’s cheek with so little distance between them. “Then do it,” he whispers, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smile. 

And Castiel does.

He has no experience in this matter, but instinct serves him well. He presses his lips against Dean’s and is immediately lost in the marvel of it, the taste of ale on his mouth and the surprising softness of his lips. Dean makes a beautiful noise as Castiel twines himself closer, slanting his mouth sideways to explore him more thoroughly. Dean’s lips part beneath his, and he wraps one hand around the back of Castiel’s head to hold him steady as he does something with his tongue that has Castiel’s knees buckling with desire.

Pulling back, Dean looks into his face. “I have wanted to do that for a long time,” he admits. 

“As have I.” Castiel presses another, softer kiss to his lips, smiling up at him. “It was worth waiting for.”

There is no expectation, no judgment in Dean’s gaze, only an honest longing that stirs at Castiel’s heart and body alike. “I told you once,” he says, reaching out to run his thumb along the line of Castiel’s cheekbone, “that I would give you whatever you asked of me.”

Catching his hand, Castiel raises it to his lips and presses a long, lingering kiss to his palm. Dean’s eyes flare wide, and he follows willingly as Castiel leads him to the bed behind them, pulling him down onto the soft mattress and immediately sealing their mouths together again.

He learns a great deal that night: how Dean’s face turns soft and reverent as he gazes at Castiel’s naked form, the sounds he makes when Castiel scratches his nails ever-so-lightly down his back. The absolute, overwhelming pleasure of being touched with not only desire but deep affection, the way his entire body can be played like the finest instrument under Dean’s exquisite hands. The surprising messiness of it all, when their spent, sweaty bodies are entwined in the aftermath, and Dean wraps himself around Castiel and presses a kiss to the nape of his neck. 

The way desire, once fulfilled, is not always entirely extinguished. The way it can return, again and again, inevitable as the tides, as they find new ways to channel it into touch and caress and soft words and bitten-off moans. 

This desire, and the expression of it, are neither exclusively nor universally human, Castiel knows. But he would never have imagined it could be like this, back before he lived as a human. Back before he knew what it was to feel so strongly, to have his emotions grounded in the very physical body he has learned to enjoy inhabiting. 

Eventually, Dean sleeps. His face is relaxed, his naked body glowing gold in the moonlight. Castiel lays his head on his chest and listens to the steady beat of his heart, the even rise and fall of his breath. 

It is a precious gift he has been given this night, a depth of connection he never knew possible, and he is humbled by it.

In the morning, he watches as Dean’s eyes flutter open, as they lock onto Castiel’s.

“Hello, Dean,” he says softly.

Dean smiles. “Good morning, Castiel.”

No matter how long he might live, Castiel does not believe he will ever tire of this. 

He bends his head and kisses Dean again, simply because he can, and half the morning slips away before they bathe and dress and descend in search of sustenance.

Donna and Jody tease them for their laziness, but there is no sting in their words. Dean seems to enjoy it, grinning broadly and pressing himself shamelessly close to Castiel as they eat their porridge and drink their tea. Bobby left with the sunrise, but he left behind a note for Dean, which he folds carefully and tucks into his belt to read later. 

By midday, they are ready to depart. Castiel embraces both Donna and Jody, and Dean does the same. “You come back and see us again,” Donna commands, and Dean grins as he bows to her.

“We will,” he promises. It never fails to amaze Castiel, to hear himself included so easily in a collective, a single unit. He began this journey out of fear he might be alone, and somehow ended up being less so than ever before. 

The Red Lion fades into the distance as they ride away. Dean whistles to himself, and every few minutes, glances over to smile at Castiel. Castiel cannot help but smile back, swept up in his infectious joy, and when he transforms himself into his true form, he dances through the sky in tune with the music Dean provides.

Two days later, the road narrows as it winds around a bend, and Castiel’s forest appears in front of them. A wave of peace crashes over him, and he inhales deeply the familiar scent of home.

“It’s beautiful,” Dean says softly. He slows Dianora to a walk with a soothing hand on her side, and they fall silent as the trees close in over their heads, dappled sunlight spilling through the branches. 

“It is,” Castiel agrees. He leads Dean further into the trees, to the small stream that splashes down a gentle hill and forms a perfectly round pool amidst the grass. He dismounts, running an affectionate hand down Spots’ neck, and looks up at Dean, shaking his head.

“It has not changed,” he says. “But I have.”

Sliding off Dianora’s back, Dean whispers something into her ear before coming to stand beside Castiel. He presses a kiss to his cheek and tugs him down onto the grass, stretching himself out at the foot of the waterfall. 

“It must have been difficult for you to leave here,” Dean says quietly. 

They have not discussed it in detail, the time Castiel spent travelling before his arrival in Kartovale. He nods, even though Dean is not looking at him, and says, “It was. I left quickly, before I could change my mind. Before I could lose my nerve.”

The warm weight of Dean’s hand comes to rest on his thigh, comforting. “It was a long road that I walked,” Castiel continues, laying his own hand over Dean’s. “There were so many times I nearly gave up hope, nearly turned back.”

“What kept you going?”

Castiel laughs, remembering his first days away from the security of these woods. “No small amount of arrogance,” he replies. “But more than that, a desperate fear of being alone, and not by choice.”

Dean’s grip tightens for a moment before relaxing again. “I would not wish that upon anyone.”

“You survived it, though.” Castiel props himself up on one elbow and looks down into Dean’s face. “And you did not lose yourself to the darkness.”

“No,” Dean agrees. “Not in that way.”

He presses his free hand against his chest, directly over his heart. Castiel swallows roughly, remembering the stillness of his body, the pallor of his cheeks. The golden mist sinking into his skin and those beloved green eyes flying open as life returned to them. 

Castiel is not the only one who has been changed.

A familiar hoot sounds from the trees, and Castiel looks up to see a snowy owl pass overhead. A branch snaps, and the doe gazes out at him from the shelter of a birch tree. Dianora trots over, sniffing curiously at her, and Castiel smiles. 

Dean rolls over, looking up at him with fond eyes. For all that they have seen, all that they have suffered, this is the respite they have earned. 

“Tell me a story,” he says.

Castiel laughs. He thinks of all the tales he has heard in his long lifetime, all the joy and all the pain and all the triumphs of humanity. All the ways our lives can intersect, can affect others without our even knowing it. 

All those stories, and so many yet untold.

“It began,” he says, “with a single word.”

Dean closes his eyes and turns to rest his cheek against Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel runs a hand through his hair and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. What lies ahead, he cannot know, but he rests easy in the certainty that some things are meant to be left unknown, to be discovered slowly along the journey. 

He and Dean will find their path, or they will strike one of their own. 

“But it did not end there.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please remember to leave some love for Aceriee's wonderful art, without which this fic would probably never have been dragged out of my endless vault of potential story ideas.


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